The Roots of Your Rock 'N Roll
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: Danielle knows this is her first assignment as a band manager, but why did the label have to stick her with the emo kids? Follows Jack's rocky road through third-class rock-stardom. Rated T for language, drug-use, sexuality and adult situations. Jack/OFC
1. Etiquette & Arrogance

A/N: I started writing this forever ago and wasn't ever planning on posting it, but at the insistence of my friend Laura (who's stories _Write Your Own Song_ and _Chocolate Milk & Cigarettes_ rock btw, go check them out!) I'm allowing it to see the light of day lol. Tell me what you think and thanks for reading :)

-Rachel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own nor claim to own anything associated with the Four Brothers Franchise. All rights reserved to David Elliot, Paul Lovetti and Paramount Pictures. I also do not own nor claim to own the song 'Bright Lights'. All rights reserved to Matchbox Twenty.

* * *

**Chapter One: Etiquette and Arrogance**

_He got outta town, on a railway New York bound  
Maybe you'll find something that's enough to keep you  
Let that city take you in, let that city take you down  
-'Bright Lights' by Matchbox Twenty_

"Oh God Bradley, you can't be serious." I whined, as my boss (and older cousin) pointed at my first assignment as a talent manager for the label we both worked for, Hail Mary Records. The band on the other side of his blinds was seated and throwing M&Ms at each other across a buffered and waxed oak table, laughing in the conference room beside Bradley's office.

"This is your _first_ band!" He laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Don't go thinking you're above it all so soon."

"Why, why, _why _did the label decide to give me the emo kids?" And they were. Skinny, dressed in dark clothing, messy haired, carrying around more ink than a squid with all their tattoos. Thinking back, I tried to remember an event or party I'd screwed up on, some shred of evidence that would explain being condemned this way.

"Come on, if anyone can turn them into rock stars, it's my little cousin." Bradley insisted, perfect patience on his tongue. "They're good Dani, just give it a try."

"Every band we sign is good, that's the whole reason we sign them." I grumbled, annoyed that he thought stroking my ego would make this any more bearable. I could see the next year of my life broken down clearly. It wouldn't be spent managing a band so much as it would be babysitting a bunch of hormonal, society drop-outs. Not exactly what had I gotten my degree for.

"You know what I mean." He sighed, pulling out all the textbook promises to ease my anxiety. "They're more than good, they're meant to be here. You'll be thanking us before they even finish their first tour."

"Hmph, don't hold your breath." I murmured following a small sound of indignation as I gathered my leather-bound legal pad and purse. Shaking his head, Bradley opened the door to his office, holding it for me as he smirked.

"Come on Little Miss Perfect, let's go meet the newest members of the family."

"Where did the label get the money to start adopting foster kids?"

"Try and leave that joke out of the meeting. Half of these kids _were_ in foster care at some point or another."

"Fucking beautiful, I get the delinquents. Bradley, I'm telling you…" My threats had to wait however as we'd already reached the conference room and the door swung open just as I was in the middle of my angry mumble. On the other side stood one of the band members, staring down at me with big blue eyes as he held the door.

"Thank you." I forced myself to murmur as I walked past him, ever so slightly shaken with surprise. Delinquents with manners? Weird.

"Alright boys, thanks for coming down on such short notice. We'll try not to keep you too long." Brad addressed the kids as I took my place sitting beside him at the head of the table.

"No worries Mr. Sinclair, the parties can't start 'til we get there anyway." One of the boys smirked, eliciting chuckles from the rest of the room. Oppressing the urge to roll my eyes, I shifted them around the table instead and tried to get a reading on each of the kids I'd be babysitting for the next year or so.

There were only three of them which I thanked God for about a hundred times before the end of the day. From left to right we had Mr. Etiquette who'd opened the door for me, Mr. Arrogant who had made the party comment and another carbon copy of the first two, only the slightest bit more reserved. Despite uncountable numbers of tattoos, piercing and jewelry, I could already see an easy marketing campaign in their good looks. All three had strong frames, worked the alternative look well and were at that perfect age between being boys and men that made young girls swoon- and more importantly spend money.

"Heh, well lets not keep the good people waiting." Chuckling softly at their joke, my cousin laid a hand on my shoulder in way of presentation. "We called you here today to introduce you to your new manager, Danielle Kelly."

"S'nice to meet you boys." Pushing back my chair, I leaned across the table to shake hands with each one of them before passing out slim packets of paper filled with small print. "This is a meeting schedule for the next week to help us get acclimated to one another, help me assess your goals, work out individual contracts with your agent, all that fun stuff. Try to stay on top of it because although it is my job to set your schedule, it is not my job to help you _keep_ that schedule. You're professionals now boys, I hope you're prepared to act like it."

An awkward silence fell over the room as the boys exchanged glances with each other, suddenly a lot less excited than when they had walked in.

"Er, this is Danielle's first assignment, so you can forgive her if she seems a little…eager." Cutting me a disapproving look, my cousin tried as hard as he could to cover my ass. I may have never actually managed a band on my own before but I knew the ins and outs of this business by heart. I knew way too many musicians walked through record company doors expecting money and fame to be handed to them on silver platters. I just wanted the boys to know that the world would be handing them nothing easily, and neither would I.

"Wait, you mean we're her guinea pigs?" Mr. Arrogant blurted out, looking up from the packet I'd passed out with stunned eyes. Who the hell did this guy think he was? God, if I wasn't related to Bradley…

"Technically yes, but"-

"_But_ I have a degree in talent management that I earned in L.A. and I've apprenticed under other managers at Hail Mary for a little over a year. I know what I'm doing gentlemen, if I were you it would be your own careers I'd worry about."

To his right, Mr. Etiquette fought an amused smile in vain, looking down at his packet but clearly doing more listening than reading. Pursing his lips, Mr. Arrogant looked down as I listed my credentials, having been shut up for the moment. Beside me, Bradley cut another disapproving glance my way, clearly not happy with the tone I'd used to frame my response. Shrugging, I gave him a look full of clear conscience. The kid had asked me a question, all I'd done was answer.

"Just so we're aware, Danielle is my younger cousin, but while we're on the job it shouldn't come into play. I don't ever want you boys to feel as though you're up against some kind of family wall. It is your manager's job to address almost all of your concerns about the band's success but if you ever feel she isn't doing her job, all of you have my card. Feel free to contact me, I'll be keeping as close an eye on you all as I can."

A tiny chorus of thanks floated from the other end of the conference table and I played with the rounded edge of my leather bound legal pad anxiously. I hated it when Brad brought up our family connection at the company. It made me feel uncomfortable for some reason. Maybe I was imagining it, but it seemed as though that knowledge always made the looks on people's faces change. Like suddenly they were making connections between my relations and how I'd landed my dream job (though I'd hardly call babysitting three twenty-something emo kids my dream job…). Like suddenly they were taking me a lot less seriously. But what was said was said, it couldn't be taken back now. And besides, the kids had every technical right to know. I just wished they'd show a little faith in me.

As Brad called the meeting to an end and they stood from their seats, I could see the blatant worry on their faces. They didn't trust me at all. Because I was young, because I was a woman, because my boss was family and mostly because I was inexperienced. And even though I was just as comfortable in the music business as in my own home, even though one glance at this band made me want to laugh…I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little scared. Sure, I had studied the _theory_ of band management. I had _assisted_ in band management. But I'd never done this on my own and there was the ever present possibility of fucking up royally. Of proving the fear in the eyes of these boys justifiable.

"You don't look too excited." Out of nowhere there was suddenly a body in between me and the door, a hand held out between us. Shocked, I looked up only to find Mr. Etiquette looming over me, an amused but soft smile playing on his mouth.

"Let's just say, we both have things to prove." I shrugged, extending my own hand to shake his, wondering if he was at all aware of how intimidating tall his stature was.

"I don't think either of us have too much to worry about. Jack Mercer by the way."

"It's nice to meet you Jack. But I think it's your band, not me, that needs the assurance." Lying through your teeth is something they pretty much force you to learn at schools dealing with the entertainment industry. Presentations, papers, internships, mock meetings. It may not be a bench standard spelled out on your syllabus, but if you stay long enough you have no choice but to master that oh-so-important life skill. Granted, if I was honest with myself, I had no qualms about working with Mr. Etiquette. It was the thought of managing his band as a whole that made me mentally cringe.

"Look, don't take what Mikey says personally." He offered, now that his other two band mates had left the conference room in favor of chatting up Bradley in the hallway outside of his office door. "He's just so scared of what he's doing, of where we've gotten. It makes him a little insecure is all. And I guess…I'm sort of apologizing for him in advance?" He acknowledged sheepishly. Laughing softly, I nodded.

"Thanks. I just want you guys to trust me with your careers is all. I can't do this if the people I'm working for don't believe it'll work."

"For what it's worth, you have my faith." He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. His features were sharply cut and there was a dark sense of baggage looming over him. But God, he looked so _young_. I couldn't even remember what it felt like to have that much youth in me and I was only twenty-five. The daily grind of essays, text books, part time jobs, bills, internships, pouring over legal documents for hours, and sucking up to corporate execs seemed to have drained it from my skin, my eyes, my heart. I wondered with a faint smile if he even knew, if he appreciated the fragility of the years holding him captive at present.

"Thanks." I nodded, sensing in his eyes that putting faith in anything right then wasn't easy for him. "That's worth a lot right now."

"Not a problem. I'll see you on Monday." He returned the soft smile I'd been offering up before walking past me out the door, referencing the meeting we had at the very beginning of next week. A tiny part of me felt some miniscule sense of relief that at least one of the band members already had a sense of the schedule, that he was taking this seriously.

"See you." I returned, watching him leave and wondering just how much of a mess I was getting myself into.

* * *

That night, after showering and throwing on a white t-shirt over sweatpants, I settled down in front of my computer to try and dig up whatever I could on this band…what were they called again? Referencing the stack of paper at my side I took a glance at the band name. The Spares. As in, spare parts? No sooner had it passed through my retina than a giggle rose in my throat. Were they trying to win a melodramatic contest or something? Shaking my head, I took a sip of my coffee and went directly to .

Myspace was a music enthusiasts dream come true. Any genre, any label, any band (signed or unsigned), any time for free. Groups could upload, fans could download and with the snap of a finger you could become an underground sensation overnight. As the boys' manager it was my job to find out just how big they were under the radar and how much work I had left to do. Of course, I was also a little curious.

Their page opened up with the same dark splendor that was to be expected from any rock band, taking forever to load because of all the flashing banners, videos and obnoxious crap. Hmm…they needed new pictures taken, this time by a _real_ photographer. As I waited for their tracks to show up, I browsed down into the nether regions to check out the size of their fan base and what people had to say on the comment wall. My eyes widened ever so slightly as the number 17, 934 popped up under friends. Damn…I was a little behind in the game considering I had never even heard of these guys. The comment wall came as no surprise after their popularity was evident. My features fell flat with a lack of amusement as I read through things like:

OMG you guys are so hot!!! I saw you at the coffee shop on 7th and 18th last week and it was AMAZING!! When are you going to be performing again?

I 3 Mikey. A lot.

I love love love your sound! Esp your lead singer's voice. Keep doin whatcha do

You guys rock ^^

I'm sooo addicted to Jack's voice. You guys need to put out an album asap!! Y'all are amazing

It just went on and on and on like that forever, all the way down the page. Accolades for all three of the boys were prominent, but none so much as those for Jack's voice. I'd known he was the lead singer from my paperwork but I guess I hadn't given him as much credit as deserved. Hmm…My interest now piqued, I scrolled back up to the music player for a sample of what all these girls were flipping out about. According to my computer the first song, St. Evelyn, was playing…except it wasn't. Translation: Their page wouldn't be working for me any time soon.

"Fine." I sighed, "Whatever. I feel like listening to Celine Dion anyway."

But before I could click the back button, I found myself wandering over to their pictures. I wasn't impressed with their default, but maybe there would be better ones hidden underneath it. And thankfully there were, it was just that none of them had the whole band present so they couldn't be used as profile pictures. It was a shame too, because some of these were really good. Candid snapshots of living room jam sessions. Fan taken photos of coffee shop open mic nights. Funny Polaroid scans of the band's boyish exploits around New York. Cocking my head sideways at a picture of them dancing with a homeless guy in Central Park…I was pretty sure I didn't even want to know the story there.

As unprofessional as it was to play favorites, I found my eyes getting more excited to snag on pictures of Jack than anyone else. Mikey's were so juvenile, mostly shirtless and/or taken alongside young girls whose chests were all but falling out of their attire. Nathan, who had been Mr. Quiet in that afternoon's meeting, seemed a little camera shy but when he _was_ front and center the kid had an adorable smile.

Jack was so different from either of them…He wasn't desperately looking for attention but he certainly wasn't avoiding it. He had an inner beauty that radiated up to skin-level and got caught in your eyes like a mess that had somehow managed to land in an aesthetically pleasing way. Going back over his stolen moments a second time I found myself mildly jealous, whishing I could still be that kind of happy-go-lucky all the time.

A picture of him on stage and slightly blurred around the edges (obviously fan taken) caught my attention. Jack was screaming into the microphone, guitar pic curled between his fingers as he grasped the stand in front of him. I smiled softly and went back to my favorite, the last photo out of the 23 posted. Somewhere along the shore of the Northeastern United States (most likely someplace in Jersey) the boys had been climbing large boulders along a beach. In the process they had taken turns snapping photographs, but this last one was probably the best. Arms stretched out on either side of him, Jack stood trying to balance from one boulder to the next as his eyes glanced down and a grin stretched his face open. The sky overhead was a little bleak with cloud cover, but the sun was just peaking out over his shoulder as he stood there like a ten-year-old boy pretending to be a plane, the light backshadowing his features perfectly. A few more pictures like that and I could probably convince some small clothing lines to pick us up on an ad campaign or two.

Flipping through the papers on my table, I tried to find more information on the boys, anything that would hint at the big picture hiding behind the handful of puzzle pieces I had. All I got out of my notes was that Nathan was from Jersey, Mikey was a native of NYC (having grown up in Greenwich Village) and Jack had been a product of Detroit. Curiosity over how they'd met flittered through my mind as I flipped further back, stopping when I stumbled upon a few pieces of paper stapled together. It was a copy of the sheet music to one of their songs. Glancing up, I confirmed that the title of this song matched the song they had uploaded onto their Myspace page. The same song my computer was refusing to play.

Without much contemplation, I stood up and took the sheet music with me over to a keyboard standing against my living room wall. Sitting down at the bench, I poised my fingers over middle C out of habit before even reading the key or time signature. I worked my way through the piano section of the first four lines, which didn't have any words involved, pretty easily. It was a basic intro, nothing special when paired with the drum beat written in beneath the piano notes. Flipping the page, I started working on the notes that were attached to lyrics, but didn't get too far. Frowning at the complex turn things had just taken, I decided to just try and work out the melody before adding in the piano harmony. Looking at the lyrics, I started to sight-read what was in front of me and after a few tries had stanza number one down pat.

Fifteen, broken and scared  
Seen too much that I'll never share  
But baby boy someday you gotta learn  
How to deal with this life and all its turns

Hmm…I liked the tune, but the lyrics needed to be smoothed out a little if it was going to fit alongside the other instruments commercially. Reading on, I attempted to make sense of the chorus, mildly interested to see where the words were going with their story.

And she says baby, would you just look at me  
Keep those eyes up off the floor  
You gotta meet this fight head on  
Just know when the waves start crashin'  
We'll be together standin' strong

Frowning a little, I wondered which one of them wrote the lyrics to this particular song. What had inspired it? What had these boys been through?

I can't always hold that light  
Before your feet  
And the darkness creepin' up on you  
Won't be keepin' a hold on me  
But just look beside you sweetheart  
Trust these hands to guard you all night  
I'll see you through these changing tides

Who was this Evelyn woman that the song was titled for? Was she real or just a metaphor? The major key and slow pacing carried so much weight that I couldn't help the gut feeling that this was based on true events. Question was, whose were they and what exactly had happened?

* * *

A/N: So, what'd you think? Jack loves to his fanmail ;)


	2. A Hot Mess

A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews (especially from the beautiful girls at GHMB :) xoxo). I was planning on waiting until Saturday to update but, you know how it goes lol. Btw, to Laura, I added a scene in the middle and changed things around a little with the last scene, so you really do have to re-read this now :P Love to all my reviewers and happy reading

-Rachel

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to own, the song 'It's About Time'. All rights reserved to Lillix.

* * *

**Chapter Two: A Hot Mess**

_It's simple but confusing,  
The truth is I'm winning but I'm losing  
When pulling and pushing won't do me any good  
One of those days that goes on forever  
- 'It's About Time' by Lillix  
_

"Sorry we're late." Nate sounded out of breath as all three members that made up The Spares jogged over to the small table I'd been sitting patiently at for a little over twenty minutes. Not even bothering to look up as their chairs scraped along the tiled floor, I jotted down the last of my notes and responded in as disappointed a tone as I could muster.

"I'm sure you have a good excuse." My voice drawled lazily. It was one in the afternoon for crying out loud, what the hell had kept them from a café I'd specifically chosen because of its proximity to the apartment they shared on the Lower East Side?

"We just got held up is all." Mikey shrugged, like this was no big deal. Like I should just get over it and move on because it was none of my business.

'_Try again, I'm your manager now.' _I thought to myself, on the verge of voicing it when Jack jumped in.

"Our landlord kind of got mixed up in some black market shit. These guys came looking for him…we had to sort of…handle it. It's cool now."

My left eyebrow arched upwards.

"Define cool." I pressed, seething on the inside with my older cousin for giving me the band from my nightmares. "Because if you guys are involved in the mother f"-

"Can I get y'all something to drink or snack on?" Before I could finish my sentence, a perky blonde waitress waltzed up to the table and interrupted me. Which was probably for the best, given that we were in a public place and they were seriously testing the limits of my patience. After putting in six different orders (three drinks, three snacks), we got back to business.

"This is our first official day bound to one another. So, if you boys are somehow involved in something like the mafia or whatever, I'd appreciate it if we got that out on the table today."

"It's not us, it's our landlord." Mikey clarified, trying to vindicate himself.

"Look whatever, just make sure it doesn't affect your careers." I sighed, not really in the mood to fight about this kind of thing or lecture them when we had so much business to take care of. Besides, maybe these black market people would come back and kidnap all three of them and then I'd be free. Of course, knowing Hail Mary, there was probably a clause somewhere in my contract about that sort of situation.

'_Section H, paragraph 7: In the event that a gang of organized criminals holds your band hostage and threatens murder, you hereby waive all rights of freedom. It will be your respective duty by sanction of law to rescue said band, even if it threatens your own life. It would also be in the best interests of the company to escape with any capitol possible. Do not under any circumstances propose ransom money to said organized criminals, should they take you seriously and decide to go that route. There are no money allocations at this time for an organized crime hostage crisis, nor should you ever expect there to be.' _It's a wonder I didn't snicker my coffee all over the table at the thought. I'd have to go back later and check to see if a clause like that existed, just to stay on the safe side. But for now…

"So, I was looking over what little info I have on you guys last night and I found this." Taking the song from my portfolio, I passed it across the table to Nathan. On either side of him, the other boys leaned in to check out what I was talking about. "I tried to bring it up online, but it wouldn't play, so I had to figure it out myself on my piano, and"-

"You play piano?"

"Yes." I bit into Mikey's question, who sometimes took a break from being the band's bassist to fill in as keyboardist on their more mellow tracks. "Now what I was,"-

"How long have you been playing? I'd be happy to come over sometime, show you a few pointers." He grinned wolfishly and I fought the urge to get up and walk away, as I undoubtedly would have were I not under contract to stay seated.

"Dude. Shut up." Jack grumbled, leaning around Nathan to frown at his friend. Mikey just shrugged, silently passing on an aggravated look of confusion. Shaking my head, I tried once again to get back to what I'd been trying to say in the first place.

"Look, I just think you should revise the lyrics a little and then make that the first thing we try and record. I have studio time booked for Wednesday, just a couple hours so you can meet with a producer and get a feel for one another. You need to look over it by then."

"Wait a second, what's wrong with my lyrics?" Part of me felt just as much surprise as if he'd slapped me and part of me felt smug for having guessed that Jack was the band's lyricist in the first place. I'd given it some thought while showering that morning and decided somewhere between shampooing and drying my hair that if I had to place a bet it would be on Mr. Etiquette.

"They just need to be polished up is all. Get a little more creative, give them a slightly better flow. Right now it's just kind of choppy, you know?"

"This label signed us based on our sound just the way it is. Let us handle that part okay, just book our shows and whatever." Mikey cut in snidely. Turning in his direction, I snapped back almost immediately. He was quickly bringing out the unprofessional side in me.

"Okay, listen. I get that you don't trust me because I've never done this before. But I know what I'm doing, alright? I've worked for Hail Mary for over a year, I know what they're looking for and if they don't hear it they'll tweak your music themselves until they do. No one's saying you have to listen to me, but if you can't respect me then just stop wasting my time."

Taking a deep breath, Mikey leaned back in his chair while Nathan glanced nervously between his band mate and myself. I continued to glare at the boy to my right for a moment before turning back to Jack, who simply seemed to be waiting patiently for the catfight to end.

"Look," He started softly, trying with minimal success to suppress the emotion behind his words, "This song is about my adoptive mother. I'm sure you know what you're doing Danielle, but…I mean what am I supposed to change? This isn't some girl I met on a street corner. She's the most important thing in the world to me." The low depth of his voice wavered ever so slightly under the ferocity of his feelings and I could barely think of a response, so touched was I by the mere sound of him. Nodding, I resisted the urge to melt at how badly he wanted to share his love for his mother with the world while simultaneously trying to do my job.

"I get that, I do. And I know it's hard to change something you feel is finished. But you're going to have to try, otherwise you're gunna walk into the studio on Wednesday and have your lyrics torn apart by someone else. If they have to be changed around, wouldn't you rather be the one to do it?"

He returned my nod, staring at a salt shaker as it turned between his long, slender fingers. He had large, strong hands. Beautiful hands. On the side of his forearm a tattoo flashed, partially hidden beneath his thick, black leather watch. Resisting the urge to pull his hand across the table and take my time inspecting the symbols he'd branded himself with, I let my eyes stay busy with our agenda, trying to find the next order or business.

"Okay, so I have two cokes and a chocolate milkshake. One soft pretzel, just out of the oven. A slice of carrot cake, extra icing. Aaand finally, a double chocolate brownie for the boy with the sweet tooth." Our waitress passed out everything in the midst of a somewhat awkward silence, bending over strategically to give Mikey a pretty good view of not only her smile but a couple other things too. Rolling my eyes, I kept the groan fighting to escape me locked inside my chest by some miracle of God. It was going to be a long afternoon…

* * *

"So Bradley called me with the news." Sierra informed me, the smirk visible in her voice as my heels clicked down the sidewalk that lead from Lafayette station to my apartment. We'd been on the phone for barely a minute, but I could picture what my sister was doing perfectly in my mind. Probably sitting on her living room couch, feeding her five-month-old son, Nathan. A burping cloth already draped over her t-shirt, nothing but jeans on her legs. Gosh, I couldn't remember the last time I'd worn jeans on a weekday.

"Oh, the band?" Shit. I'd meant to tell her. I'd meant to tell _everyone_ in our family, I'd just been so swamped at work over the past week. It was a lame excuse, but it seemed to be the precursor to every conversation I had with anyone I claimed to care about.

"_Yah_ the band!" She laughed softly, tone questioning what the heck else I could be talking about. "Why didn't you call, you selfish little sister you? This is so exciting. You're first real band."

"Yah." A small smile picked up the end of my mouth. She sounded so proud. "I mean with dad still trying to recover from his last tour in Afghanistan and mom stressed out about the house, and then you with the baby"-

"Oh stop being such a martyr." My sister's eye roll was all but audible. "We could use the good news."

"You mean the gossip?" I laughed softly, waiting at the crosswalk of Mulberry Street for a car to pass.

"Potatoes, potahtoes." She replied, a mischievous hint to her tone. "Now tell me about this band? Brad said it was all guys, are they hot?"

"Oh my gosh." A faint blush crept up over my cheeks at where her mind had immediately gone. "You're terrible. I've got a good four or five years on all of them. Which makes you like _eight or nine_ years older, cradle-robber." I mumbled the last bit under my breath playfully.

"No shame in looking." She mused, "Besides, maybe I was just asking from a marketing perspective. Maybe it's _your_ mind that's in the gutter."

"Oh, right." I laughed, rolling my eyes as I started up the steps to the building that held my apartment. "Because you're the poster-child of innocence." In a house full of Army brats, my older sister had always been the token wild child. It was ironic really that she had been the first one to settle down, though none of us had been surprised when she'd eloped at twenty-three. Crazy girl…

"You know, the harder you try to avoid the question the hotter I figure these guys must be." She theorized, sounding rather amused with herself.

"Yah." I snorted a sound of jaded disbelief through my nose, pressing the up button at the elevator. "A hot _mess_ maybe."

"Haha, Bradley mentioned that you weren't exactly smitten with them."

"They're okay I guess." A shrug she would never see lifted my trench coat for a moment and I shifted my gaze around the drab lobby. "They're just so young and cocky…"

"Look who's talking." A soft giggle came over the airwaves and I tried to come up with a way to combat that argument. A measurement about how I was so much different than these boys, a way to prove that I clearly took this more seriously than they did.

"Did Bradley mention that they were sitting in his conference room throwing candy at each other while waiting for us? Bet he left that part out."

"Actually, he didn't. He thought it was pretty funny. Tell you the truth so did I."

"Oh, of course you did." I grumbled, shaking my head softly at how unbelievable my family could be as the elevator finally dinged open and I stepped inside. Thankfully, because it was fifteen minutes 'til five (and rush hour), it was empty. My hand reached out, jamming the number seven until the doors closed again before I reached into my bag for some hand sanitizer. Who knew what had touched those buttons today. My mind silently gagged at the thought.

"Oh come on, they're wannabe rockstars living in New York. Let them live a little, you're only young once, right?"

"Easy for you to say, you don't have to worry about making them keep a schedule. They were twenty minutes late to our first meeting today."

"Good reason?"

"Apparently, the mafia came looking for their landlord."

"What?!" Her laughter rang loud in my ears at the lack of sense I was sure that excuse made. "You can't be serious."

"As a heart attack. That's what they said. God, I swear if I have to balance baby-sitting them with keeping them alive, I'll find Bradley and throw him in the Hudson. Tied to something heavy."

"Actually, knowing you, you'd just ask for a raise." She reasoned, and after a moment of thought I conceded a shrug.

"True. You know me too well, sis." I told her, stepping across the threshold onto floor seven as the elevator doors opened. "So how's that handsome, little nephew of mine?"

"Handsome." She sighed, proud smile evident in her tone. "And little. Just the way you left him."

"Slightly bigger than when I left I hope, considering that was when he was born"

"Dani, you should see him. The kid doesn't stop growing. He's gunna be as big as his father before we know it."

"Heh, God help the other kids at the playground." I chuckled, keying open my door and leaning against the wood to push it open, as my hands were too full to actually grip the knob.

"Yah, he's gunna be a terror, I can already tell."

"Well, his brother and sister'll keep him in line." I reminded her, referring to the other two children she'd already popped out. Every time she swore that pregnancy would never befall her again and then not soon after I'd get the same spastic, high-pitched phone call. _'Daniii…guess whaaat…'_

"And his aunt too, if she ever comes around to visit." Sierra snorted.

"Oh come on, Si." I sighed, really not needing crap from anyone after the meeting I'd just had. "Don't be like that. It's not my fault you live all the way out in freaking cheese country."

"Wisconsin has a lot more to offer than just cheese." She promised. "The beer's pretty good too."

My eyes rolled heavenward just as I was pulling the last Corona from my fridge.

"Yep. Cheese and beer and long winters. You're right. What the hell am I doing in New York?"

"Oh shut up." Her laughter was soft and I figured Nathan must have been falling asleep. "I'm serious, Dan. It would be nice to see my baby sister every now and again. Hell it would be nice for my children to know their aunt."

"I live in a different state, Sierra, not on a different planet." I pointed out, taking a swig from the long neck in my hands.

"Might as well be, considering how often we see you." She grumbled. "I don't know what keeps you so tied up anyway, I mean it's not like you have a social life…"

"Oh thanks, you're really making me wanna come visit." My words were soaked in sarcasm as I took off my stilettos and untucked the pink oxford that was pressing uncomfortably between my skin and business skirt.

"Well, it's true." The mumble was barely audible, but I knew my sister well enough to make out most of her thoughts, let alone words. She'd been right about the whole social life thing, which was probably the reason my best friends were all related to me by blood, hence my uncanny ability to read their thoughts, predict their behavior and order in their absence at any restaurant imaginable.

"You know I'm busy with work. The entertainment business demands nothing less than your soul."

"Yah well, sooner or later you're gunna miss me." She promised, sounding rather dejected. My shoulders sunk in response and a slight frown pulled down my mouth.

"I do miss you. I promise." My voice was small but still effective. The receiver ruffled with a sigh that told me she knew this already but was just giving me a hard time because she could and because that was her job as my older sister.

"Alright, I should probably go before we get all Dawson's Creek on each other." She laughed softly, probably on her way down the hall to set Nathan in his crib. I smiled softly at the image. Growing up I would have laughed if you'd told me Sierra would make a good mother. But she really was awesome with those kids. Sometimes I envied her quiet, simple, beautiful life. Three kids, nice house in the suburbs, 9-5er husband, messy minivan in an equally messy garage. It was so normal. So outside of anything I'd ever have a chance at.

"Okay. I love you Si. Thanks for calling. I know I'm a jerk for not telling you about the band. But it means a lot that you called me anyway."

"Yah yah yah. I love you too little sis. Now get outta here. You're twenty-something living in the city that never sleeps. You should have plans tonight."

"I do." I assured her with a smirk, slouching down onto the nearest couch. "Laundry, dinner, and a shower. Followed by hours of peaceful, wondrous sleep."

"Riveting." She drawled sarcastically, probably shaking her head at what a waste New York City was on someone as neurotic and work-obsessed as myself. "Be sure and fill me in on all the juicy details between you and the washing machine."

"Love you too, bitch." I chuckled. "Night."

"Haha, good night Dani."

* * *

My arms were sick of folding laundry that evening as I threw myself back against the mattress in my bedroom, almost too worn out (both mentally and physically) to want to take a shower any longer. You would think that since I did my laundry twice a week, it wouldn't pile up, but I had a nasty habit of trying five or six different outfits on every morning and once a piece even touched my skin, into the laundry bin it went. It was one of the many neurotic traits I'd adopted from my father, whose military training had made him into an OCD machine. It didn't really bother me though. Better too clean than too dirty, right?

As I stared at the ceiling fan, trying to keep my eyes locked on one blade at a time as they whirled around in endless circles, my thoughts wandered back to the conversation I'd had with my sister. About the band. About how lame I was for not visiting all the time, calling more often. About my absence in the life of my niece and nephews. Not really wanting to dwell on how shitty of a relative I made, I let my mind drift with the ceiling fan blades. Unsurprisingly, it landed on the newest additions to my life, the likes of whom I knew close to nothing about.

What had Nathan's life been like in New Jersey? How had he ended up in a band with Mikey in NYC? How had Mikey managed to keep such nice people surrounding him? What had dragged Jack out of Detroit and all the way into New York? Especially if he cared so deeply about what he was leaving behind.

From that corner coffee shop, Jack's deep voice reverberated back through me.

'_This isn't some girl I met on a street corner. She's the most important thing in the world to me.'_

The way he had said that, with so much conviction and overwhelming desperation to keep his tribute to this woman in tact, had thoroughly piqued my interests about their relationship. But how exactly do you ask someone about their adoptive mother?

'_So foster care in Detroit, huh? What was that like?'_ What a conversation _that_ would be. Jack would look at me like I had been raised by wolves and I'd blush with embarrassment. Unfortunately, that didn't lighten the load of my curiosity. Not about him, or anyone else in The Spares.

Had Nathan (another product of foster care) ever been adopted? Did he have brothers, sisters, best friends back in Jersey? What was Evelyn like? Had she adopted a lot of kids? Or just seen something special in Jack? Were Mikey's parents proud of their son? Did they tell him they loved him? Did he even care about what they thought? Mostly, I was just curious what had made these boys the way they were, what had caused them to find one another and what would happen if they didn't succeed. Did they have lives to go back home to?

Scarier than that was the opposing thought that chased after it. Flashbulbs around every corner, shows to perform almost every night with interviews in the morning. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture it all and the consequences. I would have no control over these boys if they got big. Although, what were the chances really? Record companies signed dozens of bands each year knowing only one in twenty would make it big.

But what if The Spares were that one in twenty? What if they were in that five percent that made it to the top? That got on TRL and had to plan escape routes should they get ambushed by screaming fans on the way out. Who had to hire stylists so every time they stepped out of the house they looked beautiful for the paparazzi. Who stayed in five star resorts and got invited to every event with significant press coverage and a long, glamorous red carpet.

It was kind of cool to think about, but altogether overwhelming. Would I be able to handle that big of an arena so early in my career? Would I be able to keep up with the boys? Would they be able to maintain a level of professionalism that would allow them to _stay_ famous, instead of just one-hit-wonders growing dusty in the back of people's minds after a few months? I wasn't sure…but I hoped we would get the chance to find out.


	3. Dinner and a Song

**A/N: **Just to address the 'March of 20007' thing. This story takes places a little over a year prior to Evelyn's death, so it's quite a ways back. Also, thanks to all my reviewers (especially hazeleyes and hawaiichick to whom I wasn't able to give direct review replies because off the site's policy about having to be signed in or whatever) and of course the girls from GHMB! Love you all so much, happy reading!!

-Rachel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor claim to own 'One Step At A Time'. All rights reserved to Jordin Sparks and her record label.

**Chapter Three: Dinner and a Song**

_You wana show the world but no one knows your name yet  
In your face it seems a door keeps slammin'  
Now you're feeling more and more frustrated  
And you're gettin' all kinds of impatient  
Like learning to fly or falling in love,  
It's gunna happen when it's supposed to happen  
- 'One Step At A Time' by Jordin Sparks  
_

My chair slid back a little as I slumped down into it, the inertia enough to make it hit the wall behind me every so slightly. Running an exasperated hand through my hair, I tilted my head back and wondered if a few moments relaxation, if shutting out the lights of my apartment and taking a couple of deep breaths would make this migraine go away. Leaning forward toward my desk, I rested my face in the nook of my folded arms and attempted to concentrate on the positive.

It was 6:13 pm on a Tuesday. I had just finished my last phone call of the day, so technically, I was off the clock. This meant I was finally free to make myself some dinner (although I had almost nothing worth eating in my kitchen at present), take a hot shower and go to sleep. The rest of the night belonged to me, no one else. Or at least that was the theory.

In reality, I would probably spend the next few hours frustrated out of my skull that no one on the section of my contact list I'd decided to work through that day had been willing to give The Spares a performance spot. Well, at least not any time soon.

'_March of 2007? Um. My hope is that we'll be touring by then sir, so perhaps not.'_

It had only been a few days. I knew I shouldn't worry so much about letting anyone down this soon in the game. But the fear was irrepressible. Perfection was all I demanded out of myself, whether the world was willing to cooperate or not. If there wasn't a way, I found one. If the mountain was too high for everyone else, I was all the more motivated to climb it. The way I saw it, there was no test on Earth that I didn't have the ability to pass. I just had to work harder.

Taking a deep breath, I stood from my desk chair and leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window that sat behind it. NoLIta, Manhattan sprawled out seven stories beneath me, evening slowly descending on it's low, industrial style buildings and cement rooftops. Summer was on its way out and the autumn sky was darkening ever so slightly, causing the headlights on the street below to flick on, the sides of each building to pop with illuminescent squares. I'd swear that when the sun went down the whole city got brighter. After all, New York would never let a silly thing like darkness get in the way of its fun. Vaguely, I wondered if it had ever crossed New York's mind that plenty of fun could be had in the dark…

Chuckling softly at how wrong that sounded, even in my own head, I turned from the window and headed towards the kitchen for some aspirin and another fruitless romp through the cupboards. I didn't even know why I bothered looking any more. It wasn't like anything new was going to magically appear in my fridge next to the half-can of cranberry sauce, questionable stalks of celery and left-over cheesy shells. Just as my shoulder's were slumping at the depressing sight before me, my cell phone started buzzing at my hip. Figuring it was just Brad checking up on my progress with the boys, I flicked the cover open and held it to my ear without even checking the caller I.D.

"This is Danielle, how can I help you?" No point in laying off the professionalism just because it was after hours. After all, you can never rack up too many brownie points.

"Hey Danielle, it's Jack." My brow furrowed at the deep voice on the other line. Why was he calling me? Dread descended upon me as a million horrible possibilities flashed through my paranoid mind at the speed of light. Someone in the band was dead. The band itself was dead. Or, even better, they'd gone and gotten themselves arrested and this was their one phone call. I was starting to get the feeling that before the year was out, I would be investing in a shotgun. Or some serious drugs.

I guess the pause I'd taken to indulge in a mini-panic-attack threw him off a little because he decided I needed reminding as to who I was speaking with.

"Um, Jack Mercer? Lead singer of The Spares, we just met with you yesterday"-

'_Like I wouldn't have recognized that voice in a crowded room.' _

"Yah, I know." I smirked, leaning back against my kitchen countertop. "What's on your mind, Jack Mercer, lead singer of The Spares?" A breathy chuckle filled the receiver and for a moment all I could hear was the sound of him smiling as he fidgeted.

"I'm just trying to work on these lyrics. 'Cause you know, you said they needed to be smoothed out and everything, and I'm _trying_ to figure it out, but I'm just having a really hard time with it. I mean…I wrote them over a year ago, so I'm kind of not in the same frame of mind as I was then and it's just not flowing. Plus, I'm out in the hall 'cause Mikey has a girl over, and we all share one studio apartment. I mean, we have curtains up, you know, to separate our beds and stuff, but I really don't want to listen to him going at it with, I don't even know what her name is. Actually, I doubt _he_ knows what her name is either."

A giggle bubbled up out of my throat, more out of response to his nonsensical ramblings than anything else. Gosh he was a mess, but I'd be lying if I tried to act as though I didn't find it kind of endearing. No wonder he loved music so much, it was probably the only medium through which he actually felt properly expressed.

"Well…I'm sorry he sucks as a room mate?" I offered, not entirely sure what I was supposed to do about the situation from my apartment.

"Thanks." He chuckled under his breath, "I mean, I know this is short notice. I totally understand if you say no. In fact, if this is a bad time, I can just…you know what, just forget I called. I'm sure I can figure this out. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"No, wait." I don't know why I was so adamant about keeping him on the line. He was making perfect sense. It was after office hours, I had a headache, I wanted to eat something and go to bed. We both had to be up early the next day for our booked studio time. So why was I grappling to sustain the faint connection we were sharing across the dimming sky of Manhattan. "What do you need? I'm your manager, it's my job to make sure you have what you need to make great music. So talk to me. What do you need?"

There was a pause on the other line as he tried and failed several times to think of how best to phrase his request, while under the pressure of knowing he shouldn't have been asking in the first place.

"…I guess I'm sort of asking if I can come over and work through this song with you. Just for a little while. I swear I'll get out of your hair as soon as we're done. And if you've got something else going on, I totally understand. I just didn't want to walk into the studio tomorrow unprepared…."

My heart sagged in my chest at the tone of his voice. He sounded so little. Full of that old idea that things would work out if he just gave it his all.

"You're really serious about this aren't you." I told him, tone quiet but sobered with contemplative surprise. None of these kids had struck me as very motivated. In fact, their whole 'gunna be a rock and roll star' thing had kind of just seemed like their shot at never having to work 9-5 in an cubicle with no view.

"Yah, I am." He responded, more honesty in his words than I'd heard in anyone else's since diving into the music industry. Since the real world had beaten stupid things like art for art's sake out of me. Suddenly, all precedence of food and pain killers and sleep was swept away with the tide of his simple request.

"Do you know where NoLIta is?" I asked, jumping into directions before I had time to realize how stupid I was being and tell him to just figure his own mess out.

"Just west of the L.E.S., right?"

"Yup. If you take the F train to Broadway South, it'll bring you down to Lafayette and I'll meet you there. It's just two blocks from my apartment."

"Okay, great." He sounded hopeful and I couldn't help but smile. "Are you sure this is okay? I don't want to be a pain in the ass."

"Hmm," The gears were turning in my head. He didn't want to feel guilty for imposing and I didn't want to starve that evening. Perhaps we could work something out. "Tell me Jack Mercer, lead singer of The Spares, do you have any decent food you could bring over? It could be a can of soup for all I care, I'm desperate."

"I don't think the soup would appreciate that." He chuckled deeply in my ear, a comfortable air suddenly settling over us now that the awkward requests and obligated responses were out of the way.

"I'd be more than happy to apologize to it in person if you bring some over." I hinted, trying to remind him that as cute as his response had been, hunger was still scraping at the sides of my stomach.

"Tell you what, I'll cook you dinner while you look over my lyrics. Deal?"

"You…cook?" I asked, swallowing at the mere thought of how horribly this could turn out. It had been my experience that young boys should be let no where near a stove, oven or even a can opener for that matter. Not only did they usually burn something (notably themselves), but there was that whole weird desire to experiment. What was he going to try and make? Peanut butter and jelly pizza? Spaghetti sandwiches?

"I guess you'll find out soon." He smirked, his obvious amusement over my reaction cutting through the receiver.

"Alright, bye." I managed, clicking my phone shut.

'_Just go with it.' _I told myself, taking a deep breath, knowing full well that 'going with it' wasn't one of my strong points. _'Anything's better than the pathetic excuse for food you have in your fridge. Besides, worse come worse you can go down to the deli and grab something after he leaves.' _

And then, as I was walking out of my kitchen, it hit me: Jack was coming over to my apartment with his lyrics and his guitar and a head full of unsortable ideas. We were going to play around with the words and chords and crescendos and beats until we had created something perfect, something we knew would sell. This was what I had always looked forward to when joining the music business, the quiet and fleeting moments of pure artistic struggle. Better still, I was finally going to get to hear him sing.

Nodding to myself a few times, I let the anticipation sink in. This was it. Moment of truth. Good looks and a hard-hitting advertising campaign could only take a career so far. Sooner or later everything boiled down to whether or not the music could stand on its own. Within the hour I would no longer be able to hide behind possibilities and what if's. I would know if we had what it took to stay alive across the airwaves.

* * *

When I came out of my bedroom, having been desperate to change out of the business clothes I'd endured all day and savoring the feeling of a t-shirt over yoga pants on my tired skin, an odd sound hit my ears. It sounded like hissing. And judging from the cloud of steam rising across my apartment, it was. Approaching the kitchen with caution, I tried to wrap my head around the sight before me.

Mr. Etiquette had made himself rather at home with my stove and the countertop space on either side. At present, he was standing beside a wok I'd forgotten I even owned as it warmed, seasoning a few strips of cut up chicken breast. It wouldn't have been so weird if he hadn't been doing all of this clad in black jeans that left little to the imagination, a treasure trove of silver jewelry and a sweater that looked as though it were trying to pull off a black and grey imitation of the Cheshire Cat. The material looked simultaneously roughly soft, while a white skull lay emblazoned across the chest. By now, I wasn't surprised to note that such clothes actually worked to compliment his tall, gangly frame. Still…when was the last time _you_ met a rebellious twenty-something who had taken notes while watching his mother in the kitchen?

"Hey." He looked over as I continued to gawk rudely, an amused grin breaking out over his face at my stunned reaction. Grabbing a stool from around the corner, I took a seat in the corner of the kitchen closest to the entryway and grabbed his battered, stained, unbelievably unorganized notebook on my way.

"So…" I began, eyebrows lifted as I looked over the scrap of paper he had sitting on top of the book. It was filled with boyish scrawl, scratched out lines, and odd little drawings of random things. Stars, the cable lines of bridges, a kangaroo adorned with boxing gloves and four different versions of an emblem for the band that he was clearly trying to perfect. Had to admire the kid's dedication. "What is this?"

"Those are the lyrics I was telling you about. The ones you wanted changed." He answered, commendable patience in his voice considering the answer seemed pretty obvious, as he continued to prepare my dinner. His dirty converses spun around the kitchen with a grace he didn't look capable of at first glance. Spice cabinet, utensil drawer, cup of water, stir of the wok. He was making Martha Stuart look like an amateur.

"No," I smirked softly, taking my gaze off of the lyrics and catching his eyes from under my lashes. "This stuff you're making, what is this?"

"Oh." A nod bobbed from his head, making the crazy mess of his hair sway every so slightly. "Chicken stir fry. You like Chinese right?"

"I don't really seem to have a choice." I noted with a smirk, shrugging as I went back to scanning his lyrics. From the looks of it he'd tried to rip them apart and put them back together in every possibly alternative order. Good lord, all I'd asked him to do was smooth it out.

"You'll like this." He assured me, "Picked it up in the homeland."

"You've been to China?" I cocked an eyebrow over his notes.

"I was talking about Detroit." He shrugged, tipping a bowl of sugar-snap peas into the wok. Laughing softly to myself, I just shook my head and leaned back against the kitchen wall.

"I wasn't aware Chinese food had its roots in Motown."

"Of course it does." He nodded, turning down the heat on the stove, "That's why there's so many Chinese people in New York City. They're all moving south for the winter."

"Is it really that cold in Detroit?" I asked, as curious as I was amused at his joke. Of course I'd heard horror stories of the biting wind that blew in off the Great Lakes, the icy storms that blanketed the city in struggle and grief. But I'd never heard it from a first hand resident.

"Cold doesn't really begin to describe it." He assured me with a grim expression. There was little change in his amiable stance, his hands continuing to stir food and his muscles remained as relaxed as ever. But his inability to smile at the comment made the memories in his eyes painfully obvious. Nodding, I decided it was probably best if we just stuck to the music for the moment.

"So, these lyrics." My fingers shifted through his notes as I tuned back into safer territory. Maybe it made me a coward, but I just didn't have it in me to get that involved with another person's baggage. Not after only meeting them four or five days previous. Not when our relationship was supposed to be strictly business. Not after the kind of day I'd had. And especially not when the level to which Jack piqued my interest was already freaking me out.

"Yah, you got any ideas?" He asked, leaning against the side of the counter and chewing on a hangnail attached to his thumb. The lyrics had all but embedded themselves into my brain because I'd read over them so many times at this point, but I did so once again, trying to find the specific spots that didn't fit perfectly. The first two stanzas seemed okay, but the last one caught my attention.

"Here," I held the paper out to him, "Sing that last stanza."

'_Please don't suck.' _I prayed, inwardly down on my knees. _'Please, for the love of God: Don't. Suck.'_

Taking the lyrics from me, he nodded a few times, getting the beat in his system and counting off before-

"I can't always hold that light before your feet, and the darkness creepin' up on you won't be keepin' a hold on me, but just look beside you sweetheart, trust these hands to guard you all night, I'll see you through these changing tides."

The hissing of the steam on the stove died away and the cheap, tackiness of my kitchen faded into nothingness as his voice filled my entire apartment. Deep and full, like cold running water, the words bottomed out with a slight, raspy edge. But it was more than that. I'd heard plenty of deep voices in my time. There was an element of movement there, an elegant grace that refused to wallow in its own pain. He wasn't pushing at all, the sound was just flowing out of him, like it needed to come out. How do you ask someone to chop up a song when it's been framed like that? When you've felt the love that shaped it pass through you?

"That was really beautiful." I murmured, suddenly feeling rather disarmed. Everything I'd said about not wanting to take these guys on was out the window. They were mine. No other manager was getting within a city block of them. I could already tell I was going to have to pay for in hard work what I was getting in exchange for talent. But it would be well worth the long hours. "I can see why the label signed you guys."

"Thanks." An uncomfortable shrug fell off of his shoulders and he jammed his fingers into the pockets of his snug jeans. He was smiling, but it was awkward, bashful. I was sure he'd heard accolades before, especially if the label had been pressuring him to sign a contract. And he must have believed in his own voice, at least enough to have attempted a career that relied on it in the first place. But to have someone with nothing to lose and a degree in music theory might have been something new for him. Especially when the subject matter of his lyrics was so personal. "So, what do you want to change?"

It was obvious that he wanted to get this part out of the way as soon as possible. Rip the band-aid off quickly instead of stretching it out like a slow torture.

"Um," My gaze cut to the words again as I reached for a pen in my kitchen drawer. "Maybe if we…hmm…hum the tune to me again while I read this." He obliged and I mumbled the lyrics to myself as he went, tapping my pen lightly against each syllable accordingly. "Wait, right there, what does that mean?" I asked, pointing to 'and the darkness creepin' up on you won't be keepin' a hold on me.'

He leaned over from stirring at the stove, brow furrowed slightly and the hangnail on his thumb finding its way between his teeth again.

"Oh, that's like…when I'm out on my own in the dark she can't always be there to fight it off. 'Cause I have to find it in me to fight it off myself, you know?"

I nodded a few times, wrapping my head around his explanation.

"You know what I like?" I asked, pointing the end of my pen in his direction, "I like that this is real for you. That you're not just pulling shit out of your ass to make money. That it actually means something to you and you're willing to fight with your bare hands to make it perfect. I've never met anyone willing to do that in this business. Usually they just hand someone else their lyrics and pay them to figure it out."

"Those words are a part of me, you know?" He shrugged, the tiny smile on his face finally finding his eyes. Voicing his appreciation for what I'd just acknowledged was probably beyond his comfort zone. But he was pretty good at wearing his heart all over those striped sleeves of his, so I didn't mind too much. Smiling softly, I nodded.

"Yah. Look, I think that's a really great line, it has a lot of depth. But I want to try to see if the stanza flows better with out it."

"I don't think…"-

"I just want to try." I promised, "If it doesn't make a difference we'll stick it back in. But I mean, the song is called St. Evelyn, so I think they get your overall idea." I smirked, trying to loosen him up. After a moment or two of stubborn silence he nodded, purposefully avoiding my gaze as he emptied the contents of the wok onto a dish. Figuring I was lucky to be getting my way at all, I ignored that and pressed on, striking a line through his words and asking him to rearrange the melody to fit. By the time we were finished working it out, even he readily admitted that the stanza sounded better, flowed smoother.

"Okay." My smile grew and I took a deep breath, finally beginning to see a pinprick of light at the end of this tunnel. "Let's do this." My improved attitude might also have had something to do with how amazing whatever he was scooping onto that plate smelled. Just maybe. Trying not to stare at the plate with wolfish hunger, I moved on and counted off the beats in my head once again.

* * *

So? What'd you think? Btw, NoLIta is the local term for Northern Little Italy and L.E.S. is the local term for Lower East Side. Just so there's no confusion about where they live :) I have maps if anyone's interested haha :P Hope you guys enjoyed it


	4. Teach You A Lesson

A/N: I love my reviewerssss! Big shout out to the GHMB gals, I love you guys :) P.S.- It is highly recomended that you track down John Mayer's live cover of 'Message in A Bottle' so you can listen to it for reference in this chapter ;) You'll see why...

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own 'Been There Before'. All rights reserved to Hanson. (Who rock btw, so no laughing until you've sat down and listened to their latest album :P)

**Chapter Four: Teach You A Lesson**

_There's a girl who listen to a young man's song  
On the block I live on, in the place I know  
Does it move you, does it soothe you?  
Does it fill your heart and soul with the roots of rock 'n roll?  
-'Been There Before' by Hanson  
_

"Seriously?" A stuck up look pulled up one side of his face with disgust as he lifted _Sooner or Later _by BBMak from the stack of cds sitting beside my stereo system. Ever since he'd finished my dinner (graciously leaving the wok and cutting board out for me to clean) he'd been restlessly exploring every inch of my apartment, apparently incapable of sitting still for more than ten minutes at a time. This, I had quickly surmised, was probably how he'd learned to cook in the first place: from being too wound up with hunger and excitement before dinner to sit and watch his mom cook. The thought of tweenager!Jack running around a tiny kitchen back in Detroit made me smile and I figured whether it was accurate or not, my version was too adorable to reject.

"Yah," I offered up a quick glance from the guitar chords we were trying to rearrange around the newly polished up lyrics. It had taken about forty-five minutes but we'd finally come to a compromise that left the song more radio-marketable while still retaining it's overall theme and feeling. Now, we just had to make the music fit around the words again. "Sorry, I'm not as hardcore as I look."

"That's not what I meant." He shook his head, smirking at my sarcasm as his fingers flipped through my other cds. "I just figured with all your musical school textbook crap, you'd be listening to something a little more impressive than…ugh, Josh Groban? Should I be afraid for my career?"

"Hey now," Setting his notebook to the side, I got up and walked around the coffee table that separated us. "When's the last time you actually listened to these artists?"

"I'm proud to say I don't remember." He promised, hunching frame much more intimidating so close up. It was easy to forget how tall he actually was until you were under his shadow and those grey-blue eyes were holding you in place.

"Well then let me give you a small lesson I picked up while studying that musical school textbook crap." I offered, gingerly taking his wrist between my fingers and snatching the cds back, rearranging them exactly as they had been before while explaining. "When you understand the ins and outs of music, not just the way it makes you feel or the artistic process, but the mechanics. The precise order necessary to make music fit into time signatures and bars and keys, it changes the way you look at the whole thing. Every note has a place, every beat has a predetermined spot. These songs don't take chances, they're not works of artistic genius. But according to simple music theory? They're perfect. Nothing clashes or tries too hard or slips out of key. It all fits right where it's supposed to. And to someone who's studied music theory since she was fourteen, it's the only thing I can listen to without grinding my teeth down to the gums."

For a moment he just stared, seeming to understand the words I had spoken as intelligible English but the overall idea they were expressing as insane.

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. And shit Danielle, I've heard some pretty fucked up stuff in my time." He assured me, eyebrows lifting for theatrical emphasis.

"Forget it." I rolled my eyes, shoving him playfully on my way back to the couch where I fell against the corner I had previously been tucked into. "You listen to your cool, so-called nonconformist indie rock and I'll listen to my lame, so-ten-minutes ago, top-of-the-charts pop. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we finish this song."

Sitting down on the armrest of a recliner that was facing me, he crossed his arms over his chest, sock-clad toe reaching up to paw at the vacant end of my couch. A contemplative look darkened his features and I could tell with dreadful certainty that he was not going to let this go. As much as I admired his passion for music, it was already close to nine pm. We needed to figure this song out and he needed to go home. Soon. Before my stomach had another chance to jerk at the way he was trying to keep his hair out of his eyes, or the angle of his fingertips while cradling his guitar.

"I always thought the best part of music was that it didn't have to be perfect, _nothing_ has to fit. It's just…whatever."

"When you invest thousands of dollars into the recording of just one track, you can't afford to waste your time on 'whatever'." I explained, hating to be the voice of 'the man' tearing down his big, beautiful, crazy dreams. But what was I supposed to do, lie to the kid? "This stuff takes planning you know? Composing music that sells is so much more complex than inspiration and artistry."

When I finally glanced up from marking up the sheet music, he was chewing on the side of his thumb again, eyes knit together as he stared my couch down. He looked more confused than irritated, suddenly unsure of everything that had brought him to this moment in the first place. The rigor my hands had around his notebook and pen loosened, letting the items fall to my lap as my features fell with frustration over my lack of social skills. I probably could have phrased that a little more sympathetically…

Scooting to the edge of the couch he was focused on, I folded my legs Indian style and leaned forward to get in the way of his spaced out gaze.

"I'm sorry." I offered, though I couldn't help feeling as though it sounded forced, rehearsed. "I didn't mean to write off your part in all this. Don't take me too seriously, ok? I mean, I love music, I've dedicated my life to music and I understand the mechanics of it better than anything else. But it doesn't wake me up in the middle of the night to create something beautiful like I'm sure it's done to you. I pursued music, but music came _looking_ for you. In the end, that's what it's all about, right?"

He just nodded, avoiding my eyes in momentary awkward silence before picking up Penny, his pretty but worn down five-string acoustic, and strutting over to the window ledge that sat behind my desk. Throwing the strap over his shoulder, his eyes continued to avoid mine as he lifted the panes of glass beside him and let the cold night air of the city caress us both. Shivering in my thin t-shirt I got up to follow him, wondering if I was experiencing that moody, tortured artist phenomenon I'd been warned about ever since choosing a career in the entertainment industry.

"You're gunna make me rich and famous, right?" Behind him tiny slivers of the city glinted with light, though most of it was covered in shadow. In what looked like one fluid motion thanks to years of daily practice, he tore a cigarette from the pack that had been shoved into his back pocket. His lighter snapped open, the flame that blossomed cutting through the dark and flickering in his eyes with an almost sinister quality for just a moment. As soon as he'd taken his first drag, the cigarette was gracefully ripped from his lips and his eyes finally cut to mine while he gently tapped bits of ash off of the window ledge and into the evening below.

"That's the plan." I admitted, praying to God that he wouldn't set off my smoke alarms. With my luck the entire building's sprinkler system would activate and I'd be left to deal with some seriously peeved neighbors. Although, you had to give him credit for at least bothering to sit next to an open window.

"Okay." He returned the nod, fitting the stick of tobacco back in his mouth as his fingers worked to find exactly the right keys. Even in the darkest corners of my apartment, it came naturally to him. His fingertips came up to tap the ash away once more, leaving a gap between his lips just long enough to allow words to escape. "Then, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gunna give you a _real _education in music."

At first I just laughed softly. After all, I was getting used to him making outlandish jokes. But between the hardened grey-blue of his eyes and the way his lips were pursed around that cigarette, I realized he wasn't kidding at all. He was dead serious. I guess I should have known he wouldn't joke like that about music. Taking a seat at my desk chair, I turned it to face him and crossed my ankles up on the ledge. As another shiver rippled my spine, I hoped he'd finished that cigarette soon so we could close the windows and I wouldn't freeze to death.

"Alright," He mumbled, balancing the cigarette between his long, graceful fingers as he figured out what he wanted to play and retuned the strings accordingly. "This isn't quite the Backstreet Boys, but I think it's a good place for us to start. This is one of the first songs I ever learned to play."

Resisting the urge to flip him off, I decided to just keep my mouth shut and listen before formulating any retaliations. The darkness of the evening we were entrenched in seemed appropriate as he plucked a series of cold, melancholy notes from his guitar. After a few seconds of letting the bars settle into his veins, his shoulders gently began swaying out the beat.

"Just a castaway, and I am lost at sea oh, another lonely day and no one here but me oh, more loneliness than any man could bear, rescue me before I fall into despair."

I recognized the lyrics immediately as "Message in a Bottle" by Sting and the Police. It had never been a favorite of mine, but it's fame and influence in the business were inescapable. However, the depth of Jack's voice, and the fact that he'd slowed the whole song down by a full two beats per measure, gave his version a tone more reminiscent of the blues than British alternative rock.

"I'll send an S.O.S. to the world, I'll send an S.O.S. to the world, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my message in a bottle…message in a bottle."

Jack's eyes closed as he fell deeper and deeper into the sound, steadily becoming less attached to the song and more apart of it. A small smile subconsciously picked up the end of my mouth at the picture forming in my mind. I could already see The Spares selling out concert halls and the whole crowd swaying along to Jack on a stool in the middle of stage, charming his audience with an acoustic cover or two during intermissions. Let them try to walk by the merch table empty handed after _that_.

"A year has passed since I wrote my note, I should have known it right from the start, only hope can keep me together. Love can mend your life but love can break your heart…" He dove into the chorus once more before sighing and pausing momentarily. Then his fingers went back to work, plucking through a dark series of notes that just barely traced the original chords. They fit beautifully though, embodying the same haunting tone.

"Sendin' out an S.O.S….sendin' out an S.O.S….sendin' out an S.O.S…" As the deep, resonating sound of his voice faded, his eyes rose to meet mine once more, lit up with the burning glow of his cigarette as he took another drag and blew the smoke out into the chilly night air.

"Did you transpose that yourself?" Was all I asked.

"Technically, I didn't transpose anything. I just sort of listened and matched up the sound." He admitted with a shrug, smothering the butt of his cigarette on the outside of my window sill before flicking down into the street below, apparently without conscience as to whether or not it landed on anyone's head.

"Ah, I see." My head bobbed with understanding. "You were one of those kids who taught himself to play, huh? No lessons, you two just spoke the same language from day one."

"You're making it sound a lot easier than it was." He assured me with a charming smirk, playing with the strings a little. "Penny was a gift from my mom, back in Detroit. I'll never forget the moment she set it in my hands."

"And then?" My eyebrow arched with curiosity. I could picture it in my head with near perfect focus. A young boy in his teens probably dressed like a street urchin in dark flannel and ripped up jeans that didn't fit at all. A tiny, slightly cluttered but warm room on the second story. His bangs falling into determined eyes as he tried to work through the complexities of the that guitar. The piece of himself that he probably felt had always been missing.

"I sucked." A low chuckle escaped his throat, coaxing one from my own. "God, it was embarrassing. You have no idea how many times I was screamed at to knock off the racket."

"Good thing for me you didn't listen." I noted with a touch of smugness.

"Eh, I was never too good at the listening part." A shrug fell from his shoulders, smile twisting with bashfulness.

"You listened to me." I felt it important to remind him of this fact, given how impressed I'd been by it. Sure, it had ruffled his feathers to do so. But the point was, he'd still listened taken my advice in the end. That was more than I could say for his band mates. "It means a lot to me that you trusted me, even when you didn't like what I was asking you to do."

Another shrug came as his response, accompanied by a small, slightly embarrassed smile and the distracted, random strumming of Penny's strings. Clearly I was getting a little too sentimental on him. Understandable for a guy of his age.

"I'll be right back, I'm just gunna grab a jacket." I told him, hoping up from our place in front of the window, finally unable to bear the cold breeze any longer. I'd moved all around the United States as a kid and never had I experienced anything like the wind that blew in off the Atlantic of Manhattan. It was an almost hollow feeling, cutting right through the marrow of your bones some nights.

"Kay," He responded, continuing to strum around on his guitar before he stopped suddenly and his voice carried over the space of my apartment.. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Um," I glanced down at my watch just as I was emerging from my bedroom clad in an athletic zip-up. "Eight-fifty-two."

"Hmm. I should probably get back. Hopefully Mikey's piece of ass is gone and I can get some peace and quiet."

"Hopefully." I laughed softly, making my way into the kitchen so I could start cleaning up his mess. Though, it had been a tasty mess. "Thanks again for dinner. It was really good."

"No problem." He glanced up from buckling Penny into her case, a delighted smile on his face. "I'm glad you liked it."

Figuring I was being rude just standing there in the kitchen and watching him leave, I walked back out and headed towards the door with him. He had his coat on by then, gloves absent of the tips of their fingers covering his hands. With all that crazy hair and his guitar case in his hands, he looked like a real starving artist and I had to fight a smirk at the sight. It was certainly never something I'd ever thought I would see in _my_ living room.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow? Bright and early?"

"Bright and early." He repeated with a unenthusiastic nod, making his way out into the softly lit hallway. Clearly he was not looking forward to getting up before noon.

"Well, thanks for coming over." I smiled amiably, unsure of what to say next, how best to usher him out.

"Are you kidding, thanks for having me on such short notice. I think we uh…well, we got some good stuff done." He forced himself to bob his head as his nails came up to scratch the back of his neck, a dead give away that he was still mourning every change we'd tortured his lyrics with.

"Anything for my artists." I gave him a tired smile, beginning to close the door ever so slightly. Jack was a great kid, but I was pretty sure if I had to entertain for one more minute I was going to faint. Thankfully, he looked tired too (though, he _always_ looked a little worn out) and there was a nervous jitter in his legs that seemed to want to get to his own bed just as badly as I did.

"That's nice to know." With a small nod of his head and a sweet smile, he started down the hall. "Have a good night Danielle."

"Good night Jack, lead singer of The Spares." I couldn't help myself as I leaned in the doorway, watching him leave, just barely catching the amused smirk he threw over his shoulder before rounding the corner at the elevators.

* * *

Well Ladies, thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Drool over Jack? lol please leave it in a review! xoxo

* * *


	5. Kicking and Screaming

A/N: Hey guys! I know this is sooner than usual but I'm leaving for Boston early in the morning tomorrow and won't be able to get online much for the next four days (and probably for the rest of the summer as I'm taking a nanny job up there :D so excited!). But I'll do what I can. I really love this story and I desperately want to finish it, so when I'm not walking around Government Center or hanging out at the South Shore mall, I'll be writing :) But updates might take longer than usual. Anyways, here's chapter five, hope you guys like it. Big love to my reviewers!!!! and hey...Leriana...where'd you go girl lol I missed your review on that last chapter :( Hope you come back. Happy reading everyone!!

-rachel

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own 'A Song Is Not A Business Plan'. All rights reserved to the Rocket Summer.

**Chapter Five: Kicking and Screaming**

_I'm trying as hard as I can  
But I'd rather write a song than a business plan  
Because this is me, saying words I actually mean  
I won't compromise this thing just to make it  
- 'A Song Is Not A Business Plan' by The Rocket Summer  
_

Morning crashed upon my shore quicker than expected and before I knew it I was walking through the revolving doors of Hail Mary's downtown headquarters, stomach aflutter with excitement about showing off the masterpiece I'd crafted with Jack the night before. The band was going to play it, Jack was going to sing it, the company was going to love us and I would finally get to sleep that night knowing that I wasn't completely useless at my job. Or at least…that had been the plan. But you know how life likes to go and spill its morning coffee all over your plans.

"God, how many ways can we really do this song?" I heard Mikey grumble from inside the recording booth. Normally, my temper would have a short fuse at the sound of his attitude, but even I understood his frustration at this point. We'd been in the studio for nearly two hours trying out different directions with 'St. Evelyn' and nothing seemed to be working for the producer I'd asked to oversee our recording that day.

Young and brilliantly talented, Brenda Lee had been one of the first people I'd met when signing on with Hail Mary Records. She wasn't very well known around the music scene, but word of her musical genius was quickly spreading throughout the company and we all knew it was only a matter of time before she would be getting calls from every up and coming artist begging for even an hour of her time. However, all we'd seemed to accomplish with her so far was the wasting of hard drive space from every 'good but not great' attempt the band took at Jack's song. Something just wasn't clicking…

"Maybe…" Sitting forward in her chair, Brenda leaned forward on the control panel and studied her copy of the sheet music. Suddenly, a spark of excited possibility seemed to light up her entire demeanor. Reaching out a hand, she clicked the call button so the guys could hear her suggestion. "Hey, can you guys come in here for a minute, I want to try something."

Slipping off their headphones, the three of them exchanged glances and begrudgingly joined us back on our side of the glass, clearly only because they didn't have a choice. At this point, I had to wonder if it was even worth finishing up the time we had booked. They all had bags under their eyes and a heaviness to their shoulders that suggested a lack of sleep the night before. Clearly they were exhausted and I knew getting the best out of these boys would prove next to impossible if they were half asleep.

Part of me was annoyed that they had probably stayed up late doing God only knew what, even though they had been fully aware of our early schedule. However a bigger part of me knew it wasn't a fight worth picking, not then at least. They were young men living in a city that was famed for never sleeping. I couldn't be their mom and give them wake-up calls. They had to step up on their own and fight for their careers if they wanted to be successful. Still…the urge to lecture them into next week was difficult to repress.

"We've tried tackling this song with every possible change in instrument and key and beat known to man. Don't you think it's time we move on to a different song?" Mikey whined, plopping down gracelessly on a stool to my left.

"He's got a point." Nate shrugged, leaning against the control panel with fatigue. "There aren't many options left."

"That's the beauty of music," Brenda turned to face the boys, excited smile still on her pretty face. The daughter of Chinese immigrants, she was one of the most adorable people I'd ever met and I'd often envied how cute she looked in all the bold, fashionable clothes she wore. Business attire was the only thing I ever felt comfortable wearing on the clock, even if I was just making phone calls from my apartment. I couldn't help it, taking chances with my appearance kind of scared me. "You never run out of options, as long as you're willing to change directions."

A deep breath filled Jack's lungs and he threw his head back in frustration.

"What now?" He groaned, clearly past his limit of compromise. It was hard to blame him, considering we had beaten his song around about fifty times over, to the point where it was beginning to slip away from it's original vision.

"I think we should take it to a different level, make it more up-tempo."

"Make it a rock song?" Nate quirked an eyebrow, apparently interested with the possibilities.

"Well, you _are _a _rock _band." I reminded them with a smirk. Jack just sighed and ran a hand through his crazy haystack of hair.

"Yah, but this isn't…" The exasperation rushing through him stole the articulation from his tongue for a moment. When he continued, his voice was somewhat more controlled, though it was also worn down and tired. "It's supposed to be a tribute. An acoustic ballad played on the same guitar that was given to me by the woman who inspired the song in the first place."

"Well, what if we keep the acoustic element woven in? You know, use it as the intro, then let the sound grow around it." Bren suggested, big brown eyes wide with hope as they stared up at Jack.

"But keep that acoustic element central." I added on, beginning to see her vision. "Never quite loosing it, but still embellishing it with heavier sounds."

"Exactly." Her gaze cut to mine with excitement, "Your first single should be up-tempo anyway, it's marketing one-oh-one."

Jack's steely eyes darkened and we realized a moment too soon that she had pressed the wrong button.

"This song is not a marketing tool." He replied, tone heavy but even. The same tone one would use when making a very serious, very personal threat. For a moment the room was quiet as all the right words seemed beyond my grasp and Jack's chest rose and feel, his breathing growing deeper as a challenging stare hit all of us with equal anger. Finally, seeing that no one was going to stick up for his art and sick of wrestling all by himself, he shook his head bitterly and went straight for the door. "Fuck this shit, I need a cigarette."

"Jack, wait don't"- But it was too late for Brenda's pleading voice, a fact which the slamming of the door reiterated to all of us.

"Fuckin' awesome." Mikey threw his hands up in the air as though everything had just gone to hell. But I'd seen this happen a few times before. Artists walking in, not quite aware of just how much of their soul had been sold to fine print and business plans. They just needed a little while to let it sink in, a little convincing that this was not by any means the end of the world. Granted, after the amount of time we'd spent ripping up something so personal to him, I figured it was completed warranted for Jack to want a break.

"I'll handle this." I mumbled, setting the notebook in my hands aside and heading for the door, "Brenda, while I'm gone could you do me a favor and mock up a rough sample of what you're thinking about for the song on the computer?"

"Sure." She chirped, completely unphased by Jack's outburst and the band's general aura of defeat.

"Thanks." I offered her a grateful smile, "Hopefully if we just let him sample what you have in mind he'll warm up to it a little. Alright, I'll be back in five."

I tapped my foot on the elevator ride down, nervous about what the hell I was supposed to say. This was not exactly what I would call a Danielle moment. Big board room presentations? Contract negotiations? Suits and ties? That was my element and that's where I shone the brightest. Not in back parking lots with moody artists who worked through their stress by giving themselves lung cancer. Just thinking about it made my palms disgustingly sweaty.

'_Damn, I wish I'd thought to bring my hand sanitizer…'_

"Jack?" It was windy outside, the sky thick with light grey cloud cover that set off an ugly glare of sunlight across the parking lot. Shading my gaze, I scanned the pavement and metal wire gates to no avail. He couldn't possibly be smoking out front, could he? That would just be weird. Not to mention it would be an absolute nightmare trying to talk to him as New York buzzed around us on the sidewalks and busy streets.

"What?" A low snap sounded behind me and my hair twirled up ever so slightly as I turned to face him. For half a second I felt like I was back in high school again, watching an old Molly Ringwald movie. His shoulders were pressed against the back of the building, one knee bent up as his head arched back at an angle that gave his neck a sinfully attractive quality. His eyes were dark slits against the glare of the clouds and the sting of smoke that rose around him with each angry puff. I couldn't help noting that people weren't supposed to look appealing while pissed off. It went against human nature. And yet…

"Look I'm sorry about the song."-

"Yah, you look real torn up about it." He mumbled bitterly, leg bouncing with jittery energy as it stayed bent against the cement wall behind him. My lungs filled with a deep breath and I dared to take another step closer.

"I know it sucks, having a piece of you ripped apart until you can't even recognize it anymore. But you guys are at the bottom of the totem pole. You just gotta play the game for now, listen to what Brenda says, she knows what she's doing. She's gunna make you guys famous." I reminded him in a little sing-song voice, offering a tentative smile. The resentment in his features didn't budge, in fact if it were possible, the rough lines of his face only grew harder.

"What good is being famous if I can't make my music?" The words left him in the form of a scratchy mumble, eyes fixated on the burning, white stick between his fingers. It was a rhetorical question. Meant to be more of a challenge than any real request of curiosity. But I hadn't come all the way down to this ugly, dirty, cold parking lot just to watch him pout.

"It's all the good in the world because you won't have to compromise when you're famous." I explained. "You know that, Jack. You knew the day you signed your contract that Hail Mary would do whatever they felt necessary to sell you guys. And I'm sorry it's like this, but the only way to win is to play the game."

For a moment, the only sounds that hung in the air were those of Manhattan's pulse. Street traffic, angry horns, wind whipping between skyscrapers, thousands of people coming and going. The cigarette in his hands, which had been whittled down all the way to its orange strip, was flicked to the pavement before meeting the heel of his shoe.

"When are you gunna get it?" He grumbled, eyes roving over me with pity as his arms came up to cross over his chest.

"Get what?" I asked, rather disarmed by his question. Clearly he was holding something over my head that I wasn't yet fully aware of and the loss of control made me uncomfortable.

"For some of us music is _not_ a game. It's not a business plan or a machine or a marketing campaign. For some of us, it actually means something."

"And _some _of us want to pay our rent." I reminded him, taking another step forward as he began to push my buttons. "What'd you think this was gunna be, huh? A fucking talent show? No paperwork, no politics? I told you on day one that none of this was going to come easy."

He nodded silently, eyes glaring at the ground as those large, made-to-make-music hands were shoved into his pockets.

"I know…" He grumbled, "I know. You just…you don't picture moments like this when you're sitting in your cramped bedroom, writing music on whatever shitty scraps of paper you can find. I'll tell the label to go fuck itself before I let all that have been in vain."

There was a chord of righteous intensity in his voice and I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. I respected his brazen passion, his naïve sense of how easy taking the high road would be, really, I did. It was hard not to respect passion, especially when it was backed by talent. But the ugly truth was that Jack's words were just that: all talk. He had no idea what he was saying.

'_No worries.' _I thought to myself cynically, _'The business won't let him escape before it teaches him.'_

"What else are you gunna do with your life?" I laughed softly, not buying his threat for a second. "I've heard you sing, I've read your lyrics, I've watched you with that guitar. Trust me Mercer, you were meant to be sharing that with the world. I can't say the same thing for everyone in music. Don't deny yourself of what you were born to do just because the road gets a little rocky. Try to remember, you _are _the music business now. You're on the same team as us."

Silence followed in the wake of my words, Jack's rebellious nature wrestling with the simple truths I'd just laid at his feet. As much as he hated it, this was no longer a matter of 'us' versus 'them'. Suddenly, his artistry and 'the man' were intertwined like roots in the earth, forced to work together, to need each other. From the look in his eyes, he found that aggravating and I got the sense that Jack Mercer didn't like to be dependent on much, let alone something as corporate as a big, New York City record label. Faintly, I wondered what his daydreams back in Detroit had always romanticized this would be like. That the label would need him? That their flattery and adoration would stick around after the ink on the contracts dried?

"Come on," My eyelids came down lazily, head cocking softly towards the back doors. If had an ounce of maturity in him he'd admit defeat, follow me upstairs and work with us for just a little longer. "Penny's probably getting lonely."

"You never told me what you thought of that song last night." With the blink of an eye, his entire demeanor had changed. It seemed as though he'd set aside the frustration and resentment momentarily, if only for the sake of ending this conversation on different terms. Maybe because they were easier terms. Maybe because they were his. I wasn't sure because I was too busy staring at him with surprise to analyze it properly. Flippant disregard, stubborn aggravation, calm defeat, mature acceptance. I'd been prepared for those. I hadn't, however, really been expecting him to start chatting me up.

"I…" A shrug left my shoulders as I tried to find the words that would fit around my feelings at angles that were not only accurate but politically correct. To be honest, his impromptu cover hadn't touched me on a personal level. Not because of the actual music anyway. "I guess it made me realized a few things."

"Like?" His eyebrow arched appreciatively, clearly thinking he was already successful in getting me to reconsider what I fed my eardrums. Silly, idealistic boy. Before I even spoke the words, I knew he wasn't going to like my answer.

"Like how easy you're going to be to sell." I shrugged, unable to force a lie through my teeth with the way he was staring me down. It was the first time in a long time I'd found myself at a loss for the words someone wanted to hear as opposed to the truth. Predictably, his eyes rolled away from me as his head shook with disgust.

"Unbelievable." He muttered, barely audible over the background noise of New York's daily grind.

"It's true." I shrugged. "You've got stage presence Jack. The lyrics are poetic, the songs are fun and heartbreaking at the same time, and that voice of yours gets under a girl's skin. You're going to sell, and that's all either of us needs to worry about."

"If you say so." He shrugged, shaking his head again as the side of his mouth picked up with a cynical little smirk. Pushing himself away from the wall, he shuffled over to the door with all the grace of an angry high-schooler who'd just been lectured about his behavior. "Let's just get this over with."

In spite of his stubborn attitude, a small smile of gratitude washed over face and I gratefully walked back in through the door he was holding open for me.

"Thanks." I mumbled as I passed him. "Look, things are gunna be just fine. Maybe you'll even like the new version. And hey, we can always re-release the album with a few intimate, acoustic cuts. The label loves that kind of stuff- more importantly so do the fans."

Beside me, Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded begrudgingly, messy bangs shadowing his eyes as his head bobbed along.

"Someday Danielle," His low, rumbling voice grumbled as we reached the elevators, ringed thumb shoving down on the up button a few times, "Someday you'll understand."

"But until then?" I quirked an eyebrow, the knowing edge to the dip of my head probably annoying him.

"Until then, my soul belongs to the label." He admitted with a sigh, getting onto the elevator as the doors dinged open.

"Oh, woe is the future rock star." I teased, laying the back of my hand to my forehead in melodramatics as I pressed my back against the bit of wall beside him.

"Fuck you." He chuckled back, shaking his head back and forth just before the doors closed in front us.

* * *

"Is he always this full of shit?"

Nathan's large brown eyes blinked back at me from behind his retro, rectangular glasses in stunned, confused silence for a moment before he attempted a response. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I noted that his spine was angled the slightest bit away from me, clearly freaked out by my random outburst.

"Um…I don't…who, exactly?"

"Jack." I sighed, turned back to glare at the menu that hung over the café's back counters. We were in a little dehli just a few blocks away from the studio, grabbing lunch for everyone as they tried to clean up what we'd gotten recorded that day. Everything had pretty much blown over after his little tantrum and it seemed as though the band was really putting its best foot forward in an effort to meet Brenda halfway. But Jack's grumbling aggravation had stuck with me somehow, refusing for whatever reason to get lost in the shuffle of my already busy mind.

Beside me, Nate's back straightened up and a thoughtful tilt came over his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Today, with the little fit he had over that song. The more I tried to explain to him that every change we were making was for the sake of the band's success, the more pissed off he got. He acted as though he's on some stupid, righteous tirade of music for art's sake. Give me a break, like he doesn't use the band to get laid every night."

"Give him _some_ credit." Nate shrugged, looking especially small and vulnerable behind those glasses, a light sprinkling of autumn rain making his black hair stick to the pale skin of his forehead. "Realistically, I'd say it's only every _other_ night."

Keeping my hands shoved in the pockets of my trench coat, my soft chuckle mixed with his, head bobbing slightly in amusement.

"Sorry, you're right. I was making him sound like a real man slut."

"S'alright. I won't tell him." He promised. A small smile decorated my face as I looked back over to meet his eyes, mostly because I believed him. He was alright, Nate. Out of all the members of the band he was probably the most respectful, the most sincere. Of course, it's hard to be insincere when you hardly ever speak to begin with, but still. "What you have to understand is that, that's just how Jack _is_, you know?"

"What, you mean crazy?" I suggested, albeit sarcastically as the kid behind the counter finally handed over the first bag of food. As I opened it to check that the order was right, my hair fell into my face and shaded Nathan from my view. But his soft, unsure voice was clear as ever beside me.

"Nah, well…maybe." A soft chuckle hit my ears and I could picture his coat lifting with an earnest shrug. "What I mean is…he's protective of what he loves. _Everything _he loves: his mother, his music, the band. He learned a long time ago not to take the real things for granted. The things that love you back."

"Yah, well…" My face continued to hold a certain amount of unamused shadow as I let my gaze come level again, pushing the dark strands that had fallen astray back behind my ears. "You can't tell me he's not like every other desperate, rebellious kid in this city. I'm sure he could survive just fine giving up a bit of his soul in exchange for booze and women and money."

"Ah, you haven't been listening." Nate reminded me gently as he took the last two bags from people behind the counter, thanking them as we turned for the door. "He might like those things. A lot. But he doesn't love them, and they sure as hell don't love him back. And that's why he'll never care enough to fight with you about them. But the lyrics? And his family? And the band? He's got all day to kill you over _that _shit."

Shaking my head, I started out into traffic with Nate trailing not too far behind.

'_God love 'em, I knew the label stuck me with the emo kids. I just knew it.' _I grumbled inwardly, trying to ignore the pinprick of fascination way down deep in my being over the thought of a boy who was less fighter than lover. A boy who understood and appreciated what it was to know someone's love. A boy who actually saw the beauty in his life and didn't dare take it for granted. I wondered what could have possibly happened to make him so acutely appreciative of those simple pleasures so early on. Maybe he wasn't quite as young as the unkempt hair and childishly 'nonconformist' clothes would have me believe…

* * *

Oh Danielle...if only you knew *sigh* lol What's that I hear? The sweet sound of reviews being typed up? lol


	6. Show and Tell

Hi lovers :) Thanks to all my amazing reviewers!! Sorry I was lame and didn't reply to some of the reviews, I've just been immaculately busy/exhausted with moving my stuff up here and my cousin's graduation and my nanny job, plus I'm 90% certain I've had swine flu for the past week lol (why they're continuing to let me around the child I'm watching is beyond me but I'm not complaining lol). You guys know how it goes. So anyway, here's chapter six finally! Ussually I'm a chapter or two ahead of posting but this time I'm not *hangs head in shame* So I can't say when my next update will be...sorry guys. But I'll do my utmost. It seems all I think about is this story lol so hopefully that'll count for something and I'll be able to get some real work done this weekend. Love you all (esp my girls from GHMB and Leriana!!) Happy reading,

-Rachel

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own 'Mr. Brightside'. All rights reserved to The Killers.

**Chapter Six: Show and Tell  
**

_Now I'm falling asleep, and she's calling a cab  
While he's having a smoke, and she's taking a drag  
Now they're going to bed, and it's all in my head  
__- _'Mr. Brightside' by The Killers  


I don't know how I let Nate talk me into going, but to be fair it wasn't as though I had anything better to do with my Friday evening. The venue was small, crowded with girls who wore too little and laughed too loud. I was swamped in bulging cleavage, sloshing drinks and dirty walls covered by a peeling skin of faded band posters. We were all bathed under dim lights, mostly of a brassy gold with the occasional indigo or scarlet making their presences known over the crowd. Finger muscles clenching and unclenching the strap of my purse subconsciously, I couldn't stop my leg from jittering the slightest bit as I looked around.

'_What the hell are you doing here?' _I kept asking myself. Standing alone in a scarlet sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows and simple dark jeans over heeled boots, I probably looked fine. But even so, I hadn't felt so out of place since showing up to my niece's fourth birthday party straight out of a business meeting clad in a suit. This club was as much my scene as the birthday party had been. Thigh-high boots, sharply angled hair, skin galore, extravagant tattoos, copious amounts of eye-shadow and skirts that would have made Daisy Duke blush dominated my line of vision. It was all beginning to remind me why I'd chosen to work behind the scenes in the first place.

There was an acute air of savage youth to the people squishing in all around me, causing the oxygen to press down on all of us, heavy with body heat. I was glad that the boys were so well-liked but God, I must have stuck out like a celery stick in an ice cream parlor. No friends or date, no cutting edge style, no ink, hardly any make-up and not even a nose stud to speak of. I was feeling every one of my twenty-five years, and maybe even a few extra.

Between all the half-drunk hands barely holding onto their open cups of beer and sweaty skin that bumped into mine with the ebb and flow of the crowd, I was close to having a panic attack. Still, I knew I wasn't going to leave. Curiosity had me rooted in place, waiting rather impatiently for the set to begin. The Spares weren't the headlining act this evening. Instead they were opening for some other punk rock group out of Jersey. I wondered vaguely how many kids were actually here just to support the Spares- more specifically how many of the girls were there hoping to hook up with one of my boys.

A low chuckle pulled up the side of my face in a wry smirk. One week on the job and I was already getting territorial. How quaint. Although, they seemed to be warming up to me a little in return. Well…Nate anyway, who as it turned out was a genius with a switchboard and hard working to boot. Jack and I got along fairly well, so long as he wasn't in one of his artistic funks and I was careful not to get overly-critical. My hands still reached one point every day in which they wanted to strangle Mikey senseless, but even _he_ had his decent moments. Overall, things were beginning to take shape. Now all I had to do was straighten out their ad campaign, get some concrete release dates set, schedule a few spots at larger, more important venues and we'd be golden. Speaking of golden…

Suddenly all the brassy spotlights in the room flew up to the stage and the audience was left in the dark. The overwhelming cheers and applause weren't far behind, erupting in a swell of excitement that only grew louder when all three members of The Spares walked out onto their stage.

"How's everybody doin' tonight?" Mikey asked, his voice sultry and charming, the edges of his words muffled every so slightly by the mic. A loud wave of girlish screams replied and he looked over to Jack, the pair of them laughing softly as they threw their guitar straps over their heads. "Yah, we were hopin' you'd say that."

Behind both of them Nate was getting comfortable at the drum set, beginning to work his way into a beat ever so gently. It was simple, almost slow but it's promise of picking up after a few measures filled me and everyone else with anticipation. The rush of adrenaline suddenly speeding through my veins, the big cheesy smile on my face, the sudden width of my eyes all took me by surprise. Apparently I was a lot more excited to see them strut their stuff live than I'd realized.

"This is a song…about love." Jack cast a cheeky leer out over the crowd as his guitar line began weaving delicately around the drum beat. Then, right on cue just two measures in, Mikey's bass joined them and the sound got a lot more aggressive. Fun, fast, loud. Everything rock should be. But this wasn't your run of the mill, immature whining. Somehow the sound was different…

"Lights of alabaster and gentle bleeding red, slide off the Brooklyn and bring us to bed, hard-fighting winds kiss you to sleep, and I don't care if morning never rises, as long as you're here…to keeeeep." Jack's rich voice soared through the speakers, a grin on his face I'd never seen before. It was the kind of look you saw on people who had completely lost themselves in the moment, whose momentary happiness outweighed any adversity life had to offer. It was the kind of infectious look that made everyone else in the room smile a little brighter themselves.

"Glamour in your eyes and promises sworn, son you better learn to move on soon, or risk watching your soul rearrange, better get it through your head, they're lack of love's not gunna change!" As the chorus rang in, my familiarity with the song clicked. Mentally flicking back through my notes I matched the lyrics to 'L.E.S. Love', sarcastically titled for the hardships of being a starving artist in the Lower East Side.

The words offered a very human sense of trying not to let the beauty of living in New York jade you, of trying to remember how dangerous it could be if you got swept up in all its reckless abandon. Ironically, the sound of the song was anything but that of misfortune or warning. It was fresh and arresting. It didn't beg or plead like the sound of most youthful, wannabe rock-stars. It was mature and honest and confident. I had to hand it to them, their music was anything but cliché. And as it filled the concert hall, the sound gripped each audience member, vibrating mercilessly in our sternums.

"They say every chain is worn free of will, kinda hard to believe sittin' on this window sill, watching the city lights flicker and burn, as our songs echo into the dead of night, if I don't know by now I'll probably never learn!" Somehow, Jack wasn't shouting. It was hard to wrap my head around, given how strongly the lyrics were ripping through the crowd. But apparently he really was blessed enough to be able to push the air up from his diaphragm with the force needed to sing that powerfully. Of course, I'm sure the microphone helped. A little.

The chorus was repeated a few times, interrupted only by a quick bass solo to which the crowd responded enthusiastically. And with good reason. Mikey certainly _was _good with his hands. As the music faded, I was finally able to fill my lungs with air, hands just a few seconds later than everyone else on applause. I'd known they were good, but I had no idea they were going to leave me breathless.

The show continued on like that. Wearing on me and lighting me up with excitement all at once as their fun, loud sound relentlessly attempted to bring down the entire venue. Once or twice, I'm pretty sure they actually came pretty close to succeeding. Some of the songs were simplistic and revolved around little more than breaking free, getting drunk, having sex, and all the typical shallow stuff that made rock n' roll so enticing. But a lot of it was intricately assembled, telling poetic stories that were probably lost on the audience. Not that it mattered. Anything would have sounded good wrapped in Jack's rough, yet pure-of-tone voice.

It was more than the music though. They put on a good show, these boys. Nate was a ruthless drummer, channeling an energy I'd never seen in him off stage. It was kind of cute actually, because all the body heat he exerted was making his glasses fog up and he had to keep taking breaks between songs to wipe them off.

Jack and Mikey both had an affinity for getting their audience involved with the music, continually asking them to fill lyrics in or shout out background choruses. Between songs, they joked around with each other and goofed off, sometimes even flirting with the cuter girls in the crowd. Whether singing or not, they were always performing and that was a priceless trait in a band because it endeared them to the audience. Call me shallow, but every good business person knows the way to someone's wallet is through their heartstrings.

"Thank you guys so much!" Jack raised a sweat drenched arm in farewell to the crowd as the set finally came to a close.

"And remember, if you're drinking tonight: Save your car, ride one of us." Mikey grinned wolfishly into the mic, winking for good measure before following his band mates off stage. Trying not to vomit at his desperate, womanizing antics, I settled for a good eye roll and began walking away towards the bar, hoping to score a bottle of water before heading out down the street towards the nearest metro station.

Hoping up onto a bar stool, I watched the crowd disperse slightly, probably taking this opportunity to sex it up in the bathroom before the next act. The thought alone made me want to whip out my hand sanitizer. Screwing off the top to my bottled water, I turned and surveyed the stage, indulging in a few deep breaths as I let the concert sink in.

'_They're good.' _I thought to myself, a glowing sense of peaceful pride settling into my veins. _'_My_ band is actually pretty good.'_ A small bubble of smugness rose to my head, filling me up with the same feeling kindergartners got on show-and-tell day when looking around and realizing that their pet frog was so much cooler than Sally's failed attempt at a Chia Pet or Billy's Crackerjack box toy. Maybe my older cousin hadn't buried me alive after all.

Granted, Jack needed a vocal coach because if he kept singing the way he did there would be throat ulcers to deal with pretty soon. And Mikey needed to stop encouraging the young girls in the audience so ardently. Seriously, we could get sued if he fulfilled some of the promises he'd been making. Nate just needed a pair of contacts, but quickly. Pulling out my planner from the depths of my purse, I started jotting down the mental notes so I wouldn't forget them. Sure, tomorrow would be Saturday. But that didn't mean a damn thing in the entertainment industry. Except possibly greater sales margins due to all the sane people in the world having the day off.

"Please tell me my eyes deceive me." An unmistakable voice cut through the crowd and my pen jolted to the left with surprise, creating an ugly scribble across 'Saturday'. Damn it Jack. "You are _not_ working at a concert, right?"

Looking up I was mildly tempted to repeat the sentiment he'd offered about deceiving eyes. But if I had attempted surprise, it would have been faker than a stripper's eyelashes. Off either of his well-toned, heavily tattooed arms hung a girl, as different and equally mesmerizing as the sun and the moon.

To his right stood a tall, black girl with caramel toned skin and a head full of enviously perfect, light brown curls that glowed softly under the dim golden light of the concert hall. She had an arm hooked around his elbow, but the tiny tendrils that framed her face fell down into her eyes as she kept them focused on the Sidekick in her hands. Over to the left stood a petite blonde with a wide smile who made up for in cleavage what she lacked in leg. Apparently Jack was determined to have the best of both worlds that evening.

'_Hey, more power to him if he can get away with it.' _I shrugged inwardly, trying to focus exclusively on the mild amusement his youthful recklessness was bringing me.

"So what if I am?" I asked, purposefully keeping my eyes from straying anywhere near his arm candy again. This forced my line of vision to stay perfectly trained on his grey-blue eyes and I was sure it was unsettling him just a little how deeply I was staring. Still, he didn't once back down from returning my gaze.

"I might have to come over there and rip that planner to shreds." He smirked, clearly still riding high on the adrenaline of his performance. And it was no wonder given how hard he'd worked. His black shirt was stained with sweat and that trademark hair that usually stuck in every direction except down had gone flat from moisture. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my more cynical side wondered vaguely if the girls on his arms would still be around to hold him when he came crashing down from that high.

"What if I tell you over and over again how impressed I was with your set? Think I could escape punishment then?" Wow. Inwardly I was a little confused. This sounded an awful lot like flirting. And Danielle Kelly did _not_ flirt. Not the Danielle Kelly I knew, anyway.

"Maybe." He answered, still burning holes into my retina. "Just for tonight."

"Yah, it looks like you're gunna be a little busy tonight anyway." It was sickeningly easy to throw him a mischievous smile over the matter. As though we were partners in crime. As though I'd actually been rooting for him to score a double-header with two random sluts in the audience. Granted, they were cute sluts. You had to give him that much.

"There's always room for one more." He leered, probably way too buzzed from all the alcohol backstage to even realize what he was saying. Jumping down from the stool I'd been sitting at, I just rolled my eyes and shook my head a little.

"Rain check?" I nodded curtly just once, straightening out my sweater and throwing the planner in my hands back into the depths of my bag.

"Maybe." He offered again, "If you're good."

The blonde to his left giggled when he looked pointedly at her while speaking the slightly innuendo packed words. Yep, definitely buzzed.

"Alright, I'll see you Monday?" My eyebrows lifted, hoping he would just acknowledge me already so I could leave with at least half of my dignity in tact. Granted, I wasn't the one letting a wannabe rockstar take advantage of me that evening so I suppose dignity was really a matter of opinion at that point.

His stormy eyes immediately found mine again and this time they stayed there.

"Definitely." Unhooking his arms from both of the girls, he closed the bit of space between us and enveloped me in a strong, albeit rather sweaty hug. For a moment my mind nearly short-circuited with the confusing combination of 'disgusted' from all the dirt I was coming into contact with and 'appreciation' for how warm and solid his body felt against mine. Not to mention the ecstasy of watching his flavors of the evening stare at me with surprised revulsion.

'_Where did this bitch come from?' _Their scrunched up noses and slitted eyes read, _'What the fuck makes her boring ass so special?'_

"I'm really glad you came." His deep voice rumbled softly in my ear as he took a step back.

"Yah," Came my smooth reply as I nodded once or twice, "Me too."

"Don't work too hard this weekend, okay?" He arched an eyebrow, sliding back into place between the girls. This seemed to satisfy them that I wasn't a threat after all, but the dark looks remained in tact.

'_Chill out.' _I sighed inwardly. _'I work for him. He's four years younger than me. We bicker way too much anyway. Go home, fuck him, and get on with your lives.'_

"I can't make any promises." An innocent shrug from my shoulders and he just chuckled.

"Night Dani."

"Night Jack."

And with that simple goodbye, I turned away and started fighting the crowd to get towards the door.

* * *

"No, that won't work…" I mumbled to myself, eyebrows scrunched together as I leaned forward and erased the latest ad campaign idea I'd mocked up for the band. It was almost two am and surely I should have gone to bed hours earlier. But as tired as the past week had left me, the concert had given me a small pinprick of inspiration to work and I knew it would never allow me to get to sleep until I had fully exhausted myself of ideas. Besides, I would be waking up to a Saturday so technically it didn't matter how late I kept my eyes open. Not that I didn't have a plethora of things that needed crossing off of my to-do list the next day, but…

A slight gust of wind gently licked at the back of my neck as I hunched over my desk, the window open and the music of The Spares drifting out into the air seventy feet off of the Manhattan pavement. Suddenly their Myspace page was getting along with my laptop and I'd been listening to the five tracks they had posted on repeat for the past hour. I figured my inability to navigate away from the page was due to the concert. Their songs were catchy, they'd just gotten into my head was all. Besides, if I could keep my background noise relevant to my work why not, right?

Under the desk my foot kept up with Nate's epic, widely spaced drum beats and whenever my pencil came to rest, it subconsciously tapped out the same rhythm. My tired eyes blinked down at the page, turning in on themselves as they delved through my mind and tried to figure out the best way to sell these guys. It was difficult, considering all the roads we could take. That paired with my pickiness and our low budget didn't give us much to work with. But we had a few options that were standard to the industry. Glam rock- all dark and metallic and serious. The garage band next door- complete with fitted flannel shirts and nonsensical randomness that was supposed to make the audience relate better to their heroes. And of course the token emo look- which was currently fashionable, but fading far too quickly to really work with.

The problem was that The Spares didn't fit into any of those boxes. They were like flawed diamonds, reflecting a thousand different rainbows in every shade and direction I could think of. There was no label for that and sadly, there wasn't enough money in the budget to properly represent it either. A small smirk pulled up the side of my face when, out of desperation, my mind started throwing around crazy ideas like hair metal and 90s grunge. For a moment I got a flash of Mikey, Jack and Nate in tight leather and weird scarves, banging heads full of crazy, out of control hair to the beat pounding through my speakers. Granted, Jack already had the hair part down…

The thought pulled a tiny laugh from my throat and I threw the pencil in my hands down, stretching back against my office chair before slumping into it. The cold breeze outside continued to lap against my skin and I swiveled around to glare at the window. Why the hell had I opened it in the first place? I never opened my windows, mostly because there was too much smog on the other side, but my laziness might have had something to do with it as well.

Staring at the darkly shadowed buildings beyond my apartment however, listening to the far off sounds of traffic and the rush of the metro…it was kind of nice. Things looked different with the window open. Less like the view from a camera lens and more, well, real. Getting so caught up in my work every day and making the sanctuary of my apartment the overall goal of my evenings had made it easy to forget just how real the world outside my windows was.

The gentle acoustics of Jack's original intentions for 'St. Evelyn' began falling through my computer speakers and I smiled nostalgically. It was still so easy to remember what he had looked like, perched on my windowsill with a cigarette between his fingers, a song on his lips. I wondered what he was doing right at that exact moment. While I sat pathetically in my apartment, listening to the sound of his voice and distracting myself with work that could wait for tomorrow. Glancing at the clock and noting that it was a few minutes past two am, I knew those girls had probably left his side by then.

Had they gone back to his place or settled for a vacant dressing room? Had he sung for them like he'd sung for me? Did he smoke after, sharing a drag or two with the fine creatures getting dressed beside him? When he had girls over did he even ask them to leave or rather just let them spend the night? As I sat there, swinging the chair back and forth a little and continuing to stare out the window, I let my over-active imagination get the best of me. It was kind of disturbing me, all this curiosity. What the hell did I care if my rock stars got laid. Hopefully the girls would tell their friends and bring them to the next show. Free publicity. Yay.

Pushing away from my chair, I made my way over to the window, bringing the bar back down to the ledge where it belonged. Folding my arms across my chest, I kept staring and my mind drifted back to the concert and the way Jack's lyrics had wrapped around me. For a twenty-one-year-old guy, he was surprisingly deep with his words. It was fairly impressive as long as you ignored how full of shit they were. I knew better than to believe boys like him wanted to deal with a girl for more than just one night if given the choice. To really listen to her when she spoke her mind and put her interests before his own. Case in point, Legs and Blondie at the concert hall.

The same went for Mikey, not to mention every other guy like them across the country. I mean it wasn't as though Jack was the first womanizer in the history of the universe. But at least most of them were up front and honest about it. At least they didn't come over to your apartment and cook you dinner before singing you hauntingly beautiful covers of stupid songs you didn't even like to begin with. At least they didn't bother to hold doors open for you and make you want to believe that they genuinely cared about other people.

A mildly frustrated frown creased my forehead as I continued to glare at the city lights, calling all the kids out of their dirty little studio apartments with promises of fun and excitement.

'_Whatever.' _I sighed to myself, turning away from the window to start putting my things away. _'It's way too late for this emo crap. I need to get some sleep.'_


	7. Good News

Sorry for the wait guys! We were vacationing in Maine and there was no internet :( Anyways, here it is. Not my best...chapter eight promises to be mucho better lol Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers (although sadly Leriana seems to be missing again. Tell your life it can wait a minute, I miss you lol), esp the girls over at GHMB :) xoxo Happy reading :)

-Rachel

ps- I get email alerts telling me when people put my stories on their favorites/ watch list and I find it incredibly rude when I get four e-mails telling me that my story and I have been favorited and watched by the same user, but that they didn't even bother to leave a review. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. I know who you are, I have you account names and everything, so please stop :( If you don't want to review for whatever reason, that's fine, but don't favorite/watch the story and me as an author and then not even leave any feedback. Thanks.

**Chapter Seven: Good News**

_Would it take some hailing Mary's so full of grace to get my sound to you?  
I better not take it personally if all the good loving is never received  
I promise to make it worth your while because once we hit the top we've just begun  
Baby there's no stopping us  
- 'No Stopping Us' by Jason Mraz  
_

"So- Donnie! We do _not_ throw video tapes inside the house!- how goes the bandsitting?" My sister asked, intermittently shouting at my nephew as she made her family lunch.

"Fantastic." I replied, the smile that had ripped open my mouth in response to my nephew's ridiculous behavior making it sound impressively genuine. So much so in fact that for a second, Sierra was ready to believe me.

"Seriously?"

"Of course not." I rolled my eyes, tone indicating she should have known that all along.

"Oh, come on Dani." She laughed softly, "It can't be that bad. All those big buildings and important people. Isn't this supposed to be your dream job?"

For a moment I chewed over her question, glancing out the window of my taxi cab as the city swirled past. The sky was clear that day, bright sunshine lighting up a brilliant glare along the window panes of the skyscrapers that surrounded us on all sides.

"I guess you're right." I admitted, my sigh a gentle mumble over the receiver. When I really stopped and thought about it, I liked my job. I liked the constant rush of being overly busy. I liked feeling as though I had some sense of purpose and direction. And I especially liked how worn out I felt at the end of each day because it was confirmation that I'd rolled up my sleeves and gotten my hands dirty. Well, figuratively anyway.

"Of course I am." She replied, smirk evident in her tone. "I'm a mother."

"Chya." A laugh bubbled up from my throat. "Okay June Cleaver, maybe you can give me some advice on how to get a handle on these boys then."

"My advice?" Mentally I could picture her taking the phone from between her shoulder and ear, tilting her hip to the side as she lifted an eyebrow, unsure that I really wanted to hear what she had to say. "You're not their mother, you can't look out for three twenty-year-old kids when you're still just a kid yourself. So my advice is to just not even stress yourself out tryin'."

Running a hand through my hair, I frowned back out at the city. Well, that was no help at all. What good is having a constantly knocked up sister if she can't even give you good advice on the subject of taming wild things?

"Yah, you're right." I told her again after a moment's silence, although meaning it a whole lot less than before. However, fifteen years under the same roof hadn't passed us by without teaching her how to read my tone inflections.

"Dani." She grumbled insistently "Come on, you can't be the crew, audience _and _entertainment. It's your responsibility to make sure they have a job to do, not to do it for them."

"But what if they suck at doing their jobs?" I whined further, knowing I sounded like a bratty 12-year-old. However at that point my need to vent greatly outweighed my pride.

"_Do _they suck at their jobs?" Sierra responded, pretending to be offering up the benefit of doubt when in reality she was just trying to get me to see through my own stubbornness. Damn her and her stupid mom tricks.

"Well…not horribly…I guess." The admittance came with some guilt attached. As aggravating as they could be (a phenomenon that was due almost entirely to their being young and male), they had been born to be entertainers and there was no denying that. But I'd be damned if they weren't frustrating. "They just show up late half the time and they have terrible attitudes and get all moody every time I suggest changing anything. But I dunno, I mean they're not impossible, just difficult. They want to be here, they just…don't always know what they're doing- Thanks." Shoving a twenty into the hand of the driver I opened the door, trying all at once to pay the man, balance my crap, hold my phone and adjust my skirt so that half of Manhattan didn't get an eyeful of my underwear. Surprisingly it actually worked out with a decent amount of success.

"Well, that's what they have you for. Just remember, you don't always need to go above and beyond your job description, okay?"

"Yah." I nodded, barely even listening to her anymore as I was making way towards the label headquarters. "Hey, I gotta call you back, I have a meeting with the boys today. Thanks for listening though."

"Yah no problem, call me later and tell me how everything goes."

"Sure, if I have the energy left to speak by then." I smirked.

"Haha, alright. Have fun."

"Oh, boatloads. Bye sis." Throwing my phone in my bag I inhaled deeply and let my gaze scale the height of our corporate skyscraper before pushing through the revolving doors, getting lost in a sea of suits and ties.

* * *

"I don't like them." Mikey surmised with a curt shake of his head, staring down with disgust at the t-shirt designs I'd asked an artist that seemed to be pretty popular among other bands at the label to mock up.

"Okay," I nodded amiably, trying to ignore his attitude. "What don't you like about them?"

"Everything. Their emo as shit." He explained, articulate as ever. Had he forgotten that she was still in the room?

"You guys _are_ emo." I reminded him, confused as to why he found that so offensive. Immediately, from the irrational look that blossomed in his eyes, I realized I was about to get my answer.

"We are _not_ emo." He growled. "And just for the future reference of whatever artist you hire next, we're also not indie or power pop or punk. We're a _rock_ band. Plain and simple."

"What difference does it really make?" I asked, quickly growing exasperated with his arrogance. Not to mention embarrassed. Our poor artist was packing up her designs, eyes downcast with uncomfortable silence. I felt horrible, having her designs hacked to her face on the simple premise that Mikey was an ass. You had to admire her grace in simply accepting his harsh words and walking away. Hell, _I _wanted to punch him and I hadn't even been the one to have my creativity bashed in.

"What _difference_…?" He was speechless with outrage, eyelids retreating back somewhat as he stared at me. "You've been in the music business for five years and you don't know the difference between power pop and rock? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"_I_ know the difference, but _I'm_ not the one who our marketing campaign is aimed at." I reminded him, unable to stop myself from closing the space between us with a few careful steps until my face was glaring threateningly into his own. "All that matters to them is that they're sixteen and trying to drown out the sound of their parents. They need to fill space on their iPods with something that sounds as angry as they feel. It doesn't matter what you want to call yourselves, you're selling an alternative image. It's cliché and it's self-pitying and kids eat it up because they can relate to it. That's it. Now let's figure out some t-shirt designs so we can all go home."

For a moment there was only the sound of a deep breath being forced through Mikey's flared nostrils as he glared at me and my eyes met him head on.

"Um, are there any other artists lined up?" Nate raised a hand, hesitantly trying to squirm into the conversation and find a peaceable solution one rational step at a time.

"Not yet." I nearly growled, giving Mikey one last second of silent outrage before turning to his band mate.

"Well, I mean I think Jack's worked on some stuff. We all really like what he's come up with lately."

"Huh?" His gaze came back to the room, eyes looking spaced out and confused. It was only then that I realized he'd been staring out of a window this entire time, completely out of touch with everything going on in the conference room I'd reserved. Not even sure why I was surprise, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and instead focused my energy on finding the notebook I'd paged through the other day amongst the mess of his bag. Setting it on the table, I gave him a mildly exasperated but still hopeful look.

"Alright, show me." When he just blinked with confusion, I motioned towards the table. This time my voice was much more approachable, weighed down with the few moments I'd had to get my emotions back in check. "Your designs for bandshirts, can you show them to me please?"

He shrugged, walking away from the window.

"I mean it's not much, I was just messing around, but…" Stepping back from flipping past a handful of lyrics and sketches, he pointed out a few select insignias. They were simple, black stencil style sketches of their band name with heavily shaded wings hanging off the edges, a few even had a skull and crossbones centered beneath. Simple, mildly hardcore and much darker than what our artist had whipped up. But I liked it.

"Alright." I shrugged. "If this is what you guys want, I can have someone mocking up hoodies and t-shirts by tomorrow. I just need to know if we're all in mutual agreement."

"Yah." Mikey shrugged.

"Sure." Nate nodded, shoving his hands in his front pockets.

"Jack?" I turned to him, hoping this wouldn't turn into another episode of 'The Tortured Artist Hisses and Claws at his Band Manager'. I was getting really sick of that show.

"I mean they're _my_ designs." He reminded me, smiling a little bashfully. "As long as the guys are cool with it, I'd really love it if we used these. It was kind of what I always pictured our logo looking like anyway, so."

"Awesome." I let out a deep sigh and let my eyes linger around being closed for just a second, trying to savor the not-so-frequent feeling that came with an easy decision. "I'll get someone on these right away. Now I just need to mock up an apology letter to that artist we just embarrassed ourselves in front of." I grumbled the last bit under my breath, looking pointedly over to Mikey.

"…What?!" He nearly shouted across the table, clearly completely oblivious to any wrong doing on his part.

"I understand you didn't like the designs, and that's fine. But you could have been a little more respectful about it." I explained, my head cocking a little to the side as my arms came to fold across my chest. In the back of my mind I noted that this was this exact same, obnoxious pose my mother would give me when disappointed that I had neglected to send a 'thank you' card or something equally as trivial to a kid. I hated the thought that the boys would feel the same way about me that I had felt about my mom when she looked at me like that. But I wasn't quite sure how else to express myself. After all, I couldn't just let them act like heathens to people. It was bad for business.

"She's got a point, man. You can't just go around burnin' bridges for fun." Jack stepped in, his face depicting clear reluctance mixed with an inability to let the transgression go unchecked. Even if he only had one foot in reality half the time, I was thankful for most of the times when he _did_ bother to tune in on what we were doing. He had his crazy moments, but like Nate he had my back and he trusted me. I owed him all the fame in the world for that.

"Thank you." I smiled softly over at him before turning my attention back to his band-mate. "You can't only treat people with decency when the cameras are rolling, Mikey. Word will get around sooner or later and no one will want to work with us before we can even get off the ground. Look, don't worry about it too much right now, just keep it in mind." I shrugged, trying to lessen the edge on my voice with every word. I really didn't want to be super Nazi, lecture bitch with them…it sort of just happened. Damn me and my social idiocy.

"Yah, alright, whatever." He shrugged, avoiding my gaze as he swiveled in one of the extra-large, black leather chairs. Nodding in agreement, I traced a nail along the schedule I'd printed out for them that day.

"Kay, you guys have a quick meeting with Bradley in ten minutes, just to go over your progress and everything and then you're in the studio until five. I'm not gunna be with you today,"-

"Yes." Mikey hissed under his breath, pumping a fist back towards his chest. Cocking an eye over the schedule for a minute, I got only a half-embarrassed shrug in return as his fellow band members tried not to laugh.

"I'm not going because I have a meeting with your attorney, so I'd watch it Michael." My eyes fell back to the paper and I continued on after an annoyed shake of the head. "I have a few errands to run after that, but if you need anything feel free to call me. I'll send you all an e-mail tonight with any important changes, sound good?"

A chorus of mildly bored agreement hit me in reply.

"Okay, you're all free then." I smiled a little, knowing it was early for them and that they cared a whole lot more about the music side of things than the business side. Packing my briefcase up, I leaned over to jot out a quick reminder in my planner that the boys needed a press coach. Knowing Mikey they'd royally screw up their first interview with politically incorrect answers to every loaded question thrown at them. And that was all any of us needed.

* * *

It was about twenty after four when I left the attorney's office, ready to drop dead with exhaustion. If there was one thing I hated it was going over small print. Though the boys had already signed their recording contracts, they still had distribution and individual ownership contracts to look over and sign. These clarified any rights to the bands name, songs and royalties should they ever break up. There was also the issue of my contract with the boys, detailing our legal ties to each other (as opposed to simply the label), as well as my 16.5% stake in any profits they made. Vaguely, my tired mind wondered how they would react to that…

Just as I was drifting asleep to the steady clatter and buzz of the metro system all around me, my phone started buzzing. Eyebrows furrowing, I looked at the caller I.D and suddenly my eyes widened. It was Carmine DeGricci, a fellow talent manager I knew from Hail Mary. I'd contacted him about two days ago regarding his own band, who was enjoying a decent amount of success in the Northeast, and the tour they were just about to wrap up in a few weeks. Hoping to get The Spares an opening gig on the last leg of the tour, I'd left him a message but I'd actually had very high doubts of him ever calling me back.

'_Fuck.' _I thought to myself, flipping the phone open, _'I'll lose his signal for sure down here. I'll have to jump out at the next stop.' _

"Hello?" I answered, praying to every saint in heaven that I could keep his signal long enough to make it to the next station.

"Hey, Danielle, it's Carmine. What's shakin?" His thick Brooklyn accent saturated my ears with a familiar warmth and I smiled. If you ever met him on the street, you'd never think he worked in the slick, snotty business that he did. Car was a really casual, friendly type of guy. The type who made you feel like an old friend with the first handshake and made you forget the cold, concrete jungle of New York all around you. To be honest, when I'd first met him I'd had a pinprick of a crush for a good week or so. Thankfully, he was happily married and as soon as that knowledge reached my ears I was over it. But he was still one of the few people at the company who had my respect _and_ adoration.

"Not too much Car. Just trying to find my way home after a long day." The metal cars slowed to a halt, and I noted that I was only half-way to NoLIta as I hurried up the steps in my black heels into what was left of the day's light.

"You still trying to find a stage for your boys, too?" He asked, a playfulness to his tone. It was a welcomed sound after the serious grind of a well-worked day.

"Sure am." I nodded, though I knew he'd never see it.

"Well, not anymore you're not. You just landed two weeks on the last leg of our tour."

For half a second I wanted to stop, and soak in the moment. Let my eyes go wide and scream with joy right there in the middle of the sidewalk, body frozen with shock. But you just didn't stop in the middle of Manhattan. Not on the street or riding the metro and especially not while walking. Not unless you wanted to get hot coffee spilled all over you and people shouting obscenities in your ear. Continuing with the current down the sidewalk, I settled for a tight-eyed grin.

"Thank you Car. I've been trying to book shows left and right but it's impossible in this city. I can't tell you how much this means to us."

"Trust me, I know. I know it all too well. I just e-mailed you our itinerary, if all goes according to plan we'll be meeting up in Compton on Saturday."

"Do you think the label will be able to put together a budget for us that quick?" My excitement lost it's lustrous shine and a frown pulled down the light coating of lipstick on my face.

"Nah, they won't have to." He replied, the full accent coming to life in his amusement. "One of other acts had to drop out. You guys are actually doin' me a favor here. Just tell your cousin I'm slotting you in. You'll only have one bus, but I'm sure the boys can handle that right?"

"They're gunna have to." I laughed softly. "I wouldn't dream of letting them say no to this. Thanks again, you're a lifesaver."

"Hey, you're the one savin' _my_ ass." He smirked. "Alright Dani, pack your bags. I'll see soon."

"You bet your ass you will. Talk to you later."

As soon as I'd hung up with him, an embarrassingly bright grin lit up my face.

"Yes!" I hissed under my breath, quickly flipping through my address book for Nate's cell phone number.

'_Finally, we're getting somewhere.' _I thought with elation as his ringtone gently probed my ears.

"Hello?" He answered on the third ring as always. He sounded kind of sleepy and I wondered if I'd just woken him from a post-recording nap. A full afternoon in the studio usually wore the boys out something fierce and I couldn't blame them, considering how long and arduous the process was. Just one song could take two days to record and mix, and that was if you had everything 100% prepared and got it all perfect on the first try.

"Hey Nate, it's Dani."

"Hey," He yawned, stretching the word out a little, "Everything okay?"

"Better than okay. I have some great news. Round up the boys, I'll be at your apartment as soon as I can, okay?"

"Uh, yah sure." As weird as the kid probably thought I was, he was always ready to roll with the punches and hold off on shoving a million questions at me.

"Thanks, see you soon."

Heading down the street with a renewed bounce in my step, my head held high, I smiled. For once I couldn't wait to call my sister.

* * *

Just in case anyone's curious, Carmine is based on Danny Messer from CSI: NY and is named after the actor who plays him lol yes, I'm a dork I know. But just to be fair, I've always been a true Detective Flack girl lol. Hope you liked the chapter, more soon ;)


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